put me in coach, i'm ready to play
by killians-dimples
Summary: PR Director Emma Swan moves to Pittsburgh intent on restarting her life. But playboy shortstop Killian Jones is making her job a hell of a lot harder with his antics. CS AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Quick note:** So I removed this story a couple months ago with the intention of turning it into an original novel. But things didn't turn out as planned, and I love it too much to keep it down. I'll be reposting the story over the next couple of weeks - fleshing it out a bit more, correcting some mistakes, and adding some missing scenes. Thank you all for your patience and I hope you like it just as much during take two. :)

 **Prologue**

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose as she stares at the homepage of ESPN, a picture of the Pittsburgh Pirates' shortstop grinning blearily at the camera smack dab in the middle of the page. If this were a newspaper, it'd be above the fold. Somehow the blinking BREAKING NEWS bar above it makes it worse.

If it can get worse.

He has a pretty brunette straddling his waist, his fingers curled tight around her hip, and yep – there's the half empty bottle of whiskey, right at his elbow. The headline reads _Pirate Goes Plundering_ and she sighs again, pressing harder against her closed eyelids until she sees spots.

She would say she expected more from ESPN, but she supposes it's hard to avoid a meaty storyline when it falls right into your lap.

Repeatedly.

The headache behind her eyes has regret niggling at the back of her mind. Regret at coming to Pittsburgh, regret at believing David that this job would only mean good things for her, regret that she didn't even bother to do background before she took the job – clinging to the lifeline with both hands and packing her bags almost immediately.

Still. Regret is a funny thing and maybe - maybe she should have stayed in Kansas City.

But thinking of Kansas City makes her think of soft brown eyes smiling at her over morning cups of coffee, a life promised together only to be – only to be destroyed with no warning whatsoever.

Her thumb rubs against the inside of her finger in a compulsive twitch only to find bare skin instead of cold metal and she sighs again, staring at the clock above her door. He's late – of course – and she's just about to pack it in, thinking about that bottle of merlot Mary Margaret left her as a _Welcome to Pittsburgh,_ when the plundering pirate himself comes swinging through her door.

He's wearing a pair of loose fitting sweats and a Pirates t-shirt that's worn and threadbare, the wash having teased the logo from the fabric where it's stretched across his chest. He smells like the soap the equipment guys buy in bulk – wintergreen and fresh –the wet hair curling behind his ears and leaving droplets on his shoulders confirming her suspicion that he took in an extra-long shower after practice. He adjusts his backwards baseball cap as he meanders through the door – a tuft of riotous black hair peeking through above the band – stopping abruptly when his gaze snaps up and lands on her.

"Uh, you're not a man," is his genius greeting and she is momentarily taken aback by the grit in his voice, the way he has to clear his throat around his obvious surprise. She's read his bio, knows he hails from some distant corner of England, discovered at his tiny college by an MLB scout. But still, the languid roll of his accent catches her by surprise.

He gives her a slow grin, shoulders rolling back – practically strutting over to one of her chairs and dropping himself into it while fixing her with an intense stare – all serious blue eyes and hair draped over his forehead. She merely arches an eyebrow in response, used to men who think they can get whatever they want with a pretty face.

"No I'm not," she replies and they simply stare at each other for a moment until she remembers that she's supposed to be berating him for his behavior – not engaging in some quasi wild west stare down.

"Mr. Jones –" She begins, but he cuts her off quickly.

"Killian." He amends and the smile he shoots her is crooked, one side shooting up until the other mirrors, dimples flashing in his cheeks. She fights the urge to roll her eyes because he is just so _typical_. She had hoped that the spread in ESPN was a one-time thing, but nothing she sees is making her feel better about this whole PR nightmare – the party boy star athlete apparently _not_ a persona painted on by the media. He tilts his head to the side as he looks at her.

"You're new," he surmises.

This time she does roll her eyes. "Obviously. Now, Killian – "

"Wherever did you come from, lass?"

She supposes he means to be charming, his chin resting in the palm of his hand as he gazes at her, but instead all it does is fray her already limited patience. She has a bottle of wine at home, damnit. Not to mention a couple (two – two is all there was) boxes left to unpack and – wine. Lots and lots of wine.

Irate, she bites the inside of her cheek. "Well, when a man loves a woman –"

His chuckle is deep and rich and his eyes shine as he leans back in her chair, propping his feet up on the edge of her desk and crossing his arms. She pushes his legs off and he falls with another snort, grin spreading wider to flash perfect white teeth.

It's easy to see how wiry brunettes keep falling into his lap.

(It's easy to see how danger follows him everywhere he goes.)

"Oh yes? What happens next?" His eyebrows raise high on his head as his tongue does something obscene against his bottom lip, chin falling into his hand as he stares at her expectantly. She schools her face into an unamused look and turns her computer monitor to face him.

His gaze switches over to it quickly and he doesn't even have the audacity to look contrite. He shrugs with a little frown and averts his gaze back to her.

"Did you want details?"

She stares at him mouth agape. She's dealt with her fair share of crises. Had players under her tutelage who were difficult to deal with – at best. She even worked for an owner who was one step away from the purest form of evil and yet – she's never had someone come onto her as she confronted them.

It's unsettling.

Rage simmers in her stomach and she sits up in her seat a little straighter at the same moment he does, fingers adjusting his hat on his head. "Or better yet, how about you and I get out of here and I show you."

"You have got to be kidding me. Listen –"

"We could round first base," he cuts her off with a lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows. "I could show you my _swing_."

"Oh my god."

He doesn't look deterred. "Ground rule double, perhaps? Slide on into home?"

When she doesn't say anything at all – choosing to stare at him like he's sprouted another head – he frowns. "You don't look like you bat for the other team, so to speak."

Amusement pulls at the corners of her lips because he's using _baseball puns_ to hit on her. It's like he's not even trying – or he is.

"Does that ever actually work?"

He shrugs at her with a small sort of nod and she sighs – realizing that it definitely has nothing to do with the way he approaches women and everythingto do with the way he looks. Bright blue eyes, tall lean frame, messy black hair in a constant chaotic sweep – the way his bottom lip tugs down a bit when he smiles wide –

Said lips twitch upwards with a smug smile (like he knows what she's thinking and he probably does, _damnit_ ) and she blushes lightly, flicking off her computer monitor and grabbing for her purse.

"I called you here because I need you to cool the antics. You're creating a mess for yourself, and for your team."

His gaze is cool as he appraises her, jovial mood disappearing almost immediately when the word team leaves her mouth.

"And for you," he adds quietly, standing when she does.

She nods because he's right – it makes her job more complicated when a player is going off the rails. She pulls on her coat. "I just need you to be a gentleman."

He arches an eyebrow at her strange way of articulating appropriate player behavior and grins, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. He takes a step closer to her as she rounds her desk, just shy of uncomfortable.

"I'm always a gentleman, love."

-/-

It's the bottom of the sixth when she finds her eyes drawn to him again, shifting his weight back and forth, bill pulled down low over his forehead. His eyes slant in concentration towards David as he readies for the pitch, punching the inside of his glove several times in quick succession and then stilling completely.

The stadium goes almost completely silent – fans waiting with baited breath. Ruby stills next to her, fingers ending their constant clacking to watch the next play.

The pitch goes and the crack of the ball as it makes contact against the bat echoes through the ballpark. She stands in her seat in the press box as the entire crowd does the same, the ball arching high and left, straddling the line between foul and fair. She feels the tension in her spine as Killian shifts beneath it, suddenly running full steam ahead towards the left side of the field. He waves off the outfielder and sprints madly, turning just before the wall and tilting his glove up.

"Holy shit." Ruby mutters and she's tempted to agree because that is just a ridiculous catch and there is no way he makes it. Not without breaking both his legs – or maybe someone else's.

He goes head over ass into the stands, nothing but the bottom of his cleats visible over the low wall. There is a moment of stillness where everyone in the stadium holds their breath, an eerie quiet as the world narrows to his shifting legs and the umpire running over to the low wall. Seconds that feel like hours and her breath backed up into her lungs until – he signals out and the crowd erupts around them. Her heart beats madly in her chest as she keeps her eyes trained on where he disappeared, leaning forward with hands braced on the edge of her desk in the open air box.

He appears suddenly, hand holding the ball high in the air and she sighs, relief that she doesn't quite understand slumping her shoulders. She watches as he tosses the ball to the ump and then steps up on the low wall. He hesitates, even as his teammates crowd around him, and turns suddenly, eyes searching as he looks into the crowd. It looks as if his gaze lands on the press box, and she watches as the magnified version of his face grins slow and wide on the jumbotron behind him.

Still standing on the wall, he flips off his hat, bending at the waist and tipping his head down in an exaggerated formal bow. Blue eyes peer up from under a thick fringe of black hair and she swears to god he's looking right at her.

The mouthing of the word _gentleman_ pretty much confirms it.

Asshole.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

His head aches.

He has half a mind to use one of the bats leaning in the corner of the training room to knock out the bloody lightbulbs, but Victor would probably throw a fit over broken glass in his work area. He groans and tugs his cap further over his face in a valiant effort to block out the _bloody_ fluorescents, covering his eyes with a dramatic arm swing when it doesn't do much at all. His fingers are already going numb with the awkward angle, but he persists, if only to disabuse a laughing Victor to his left from finding any more humor in his pain.

Perhaps he should have stopped after the second glass of rum. Alas, he never was one for moderation.

"Are you hungover?" David's voice reverberates off the walls of the small medical office and he winces, putting his hands over his ears with a groan. Maybe if he renders himself completely immobile, Dave will move on from his pathetic form. He has no desire for an intervention from the natural born leader of the team, and he fears if David begins one, he will retch over the side of the table.

"My expert medical opinion is yes," Victor chuckles and Killian sits up with a groan, yawning wide and giving the athletic trainer a half-hearted glare. He can feel David's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head but he ignores it, choosing instead to scratch his hand roughly through his hair and inspect the cracks in the locker room floor.

"Your medical opinion is pure rubbish," he grumbles and Victor just rolls his eyes in response.

"And you get more British when you're in a piss-poor mood. Hydrate, it will get rid of your headache." He tosses a water bottle and Killian catches it easily, fighting the very real desire to snip Victor's words back at him. It's not the first time he's had to hydrate after an evening out. He doesn't need the reminder of how to recuperate his body from the hell he put it through.

He's idly considering launching the water bottle as a projectile at David when Robin casually strolls into the locker room. The easy smile on his face instantly darkens Killian's mood, and he can't help the scowl that deepens upon eye contact.

He looks disappointed. Killian's frown deepens.

"Are you hungover?" Killian sighs and watches as Robin's gaze darts over to David. "I thought he had a meeting."

Killian glances at David and David puts his hands on his hips, practically radiating authority. "I thought you had a meeting."

He thinks of the beautiful blonde with sharp green eyes and long, long legs and for the first time since he hauled himself from his prone position on his couch this morning, empty bottle of rum clattering across the floor – he feels a hint of relief. His thoughts easily slide from the pain radiating across his skull to the new PR Director with her red leather jacket and blonde hair curling at her collarbones. She had cut him down with nary a word and didn't entertain even a moment of his flirtatious advances.

To say he was intrigued would be an understatement.

"Ah yes, I most certainly had a meeting," he arches both his eyebrows high on his head and glances between David and Robin. "Did you know our new director of PR is not a man?"

Robin looks unamused. David scoffs. "Of course Emma isn't a man. Why did you think she was?"

"Emma." He sounds it out and another grin blossoms on his face. All he was given prior to their meeting was a small slip of paper with the name E. Swan scribbled across it and he had been a bit too taken aback – green eyes, green _green_ eyes – to catch her name.

Plus she had been yelling at him – and a commanding woman provides its distractions.

"You know her then?"

He aims for nonchalance but judging by the exasperated roll of Robin's eyes and the suspicious look tilting the corners of David's mouth, it's obvious he isn't successful. Robin snorts and throws his duffle to the ground, pulling off his sweatshirt and reclining on one of the long benches that line the center of the room.

"Ah, so the bow is explained."

David's head snaps over to Robin so fast, it's a bloody miracle he doesn't cause himself a strain. Robin answers the silent question with a vague sort of gesture mimicking a bow. "You know, the other night. He was very clearly looking in the direction of the press box."

"I wasn't– "

"Don't." David's confusion shifts to a dark look – his eyes hardening in the span of a second. Killian feels the smile slip from his face, an uncomfortable flip to his stomach that has him clutching the edges of his table. It's rare for Dave to get genuinely angry about anything, let alone a few easy quips made concerning the new (and lovely) PR Director. He fancies the two of them friends – good friends, after all their years together - and to see him react this way over a meaningless gesture in the heat of the moment, well – it's disconcerting.

"Don't mess with Emma, Killian. I mean it." At his blank and somewhat confused stare, David elaborates. "She just transferred here from the Royals, and she left some pretty bad stuff behind. So leave her be."

"Kansas City?" His mind immediately jumps to all the connotations of bad things and his hands clench by his sides. He knows what it's like to be taken advantage of. To be left behind. He has his own ghosts that haunt his lonely nights, after all, and it's just – he doesn't like to see it for anyone else, is all. "Are thing, uh, I mean is she - ?"

David nods, a jerky, aborted thing that speaks to details he isn't willing to voice. "Emma is – "

In a happy twist of fate or perhaps cosmic interference, the locker room door swings open - the woman in question striding through the double doors. Emma makes a bee-line over to where they are huddled together, eyebrows furrowing as she looks him up and down. He gives her his best charming grin, but she just frowns in response.

"You look like shit," she states without a hint of hesitation. She leans forward and grips at the collar of his shirt with thumb and forefinger, sniffing delicately – her nose wrinkling adorably as his gaze traces the freckles along her nose. There's a cluster of them just under her left eye. He wonders if she knows.

She leans back with a frown, fingertips catching a bit in the collar as she sighs, clutching her clipboard tight to her chest.

"Did we not just have this conversation?"

Robin chokes back a laugh from the bench and David presses the palm of his hand between Emma's shoulders, the tension there immediately releasing in favor of a slightly-defeated, definitely-annoyed tilt. He observes it silently, filing it away for later consideration.

"To what conversation are you referring?" He knows better to play dumb with this woman, but at the same time he can't help put prod her a bit. See some of that same fire from last night.

"I said no more drinking."

His amusement quickly flips in favor of annoyance. If there is one thing he has no patience for, it's being told what to do. He does not need a babysitter, and he is more than capable of taking care of himself.

He does just fine on his own.

Careful to keep his tone even, he licks at his bottom lip. "No, I believe the term you used was antics and don't fret, darling." She bristles at the pet name and his smirk curls deeper. "My dashing mug wasn't snatched by a single one of those sodding paps. I drank at home."

At her arched eyebrow and pointed look, he continues. "Alone." He taps his water bottle once at her shoulder. "Why, darling? Did you fancy yourself an invite?"

A faint blush climbs her cheeks and he much rathers it up close and in-person as opposed to halfway across a baseball diamond. He makes to take a step forward and sway into her space but David coughs, interrupting the moment.

"I just want you to listen to my instructions," she seethes from between clenched teeth, that fire of hers practically licking at the toes of his shoes.

But he has some fire of his own, and she's tapped into quite the well of self-loathing and resentment.

"Demands, more like it. And I did as you asked. I'd appreciate some gratitude."

"What? Do you want a gold star?"

"I certainly want something."

It's easy to infuse the word with innuendo, tongue poking the inside of his cheek and thumb hooking in the belt loop of his jeans. This time she doesn't blush, but her eyes flash and her hands curl into fists around the clipboard, knuckles white under the strain. They stare at each other quietly, eyes hard and shoulders tight – not even David's palm pressed between her shoulders calming her down now. Her phone goes off and she huffs out a sharp breath through her nose, glancing down at it and stepping out of David's touch.

"Open locker room in 15 minutes. Get ready for the media."

And with that she leaves, stilettos clicking across the floor, blonde hair swinging behind her. His irritation pulls tight at the base of his spine and he tilts his head and watches the curve of her hips as she moves – his imagination just starting to get creative for proper outlets of his aggression when David smacks him roughly on the back of the head.

He glowers at him but Dave just sticks a warning finger in his face.

"Don't."

-/-

He stares hard at the unopened bottle of rum sitting on his countertop.

Rocks back on his heels.

Turns and does a lap around the living room before coming back and staring at it again.

He fingers the cap lightly, draws his hand over the comfort of the label. Drinking for him has never been about fraternization or a flippant need for the buzz that simmers just beneath his skin. It's always been a somewhat desperate need to forget. To chase the whispers that linger in the back of his mind away with the hum of liquor. He doesn't drink because he likes to – he drinks because he needs to.

He knows that's a problem in and of itself, but the nightmares are just too thick without it – dark and catastrophic and consuming.

But Emma is right – stubborn and irritating as hell – but right. His behavior is starting to become something of an expected course of action by both local and national media and he suspects the team owner had some sort of ulterior motive in bringing Emma in. The previous head of PR was a bit lax in regards to player behavior and it's just too coincidental that he made the front page of ESPN the same day the Swan girl moved to Pittsburgh.

He cringes when he thinks of that picture – how he doesn't remember a lick of that night or the woman caressing his jaw in the picture.

He thinks of the way David and Robin sometimes look at him, like he's a ticking time bomb about to explode. When Emma mentioned the team, she didn't know just how effective a tool that was, how compelling it is for him to protect not himself, but them. The team is the closest thing he's had to a family since -

He slides the bottle towards him and undoes the cap, drinking straight from the lip, ignoring the glass to his left.

-/-

There are nights when the liquor warms him pleasantly and there are nights when it goes straight to his head, making everything soft and peaceful around him. He floats above it all with his bottle curled protectively against his chest and if he closes his eyes, he can almost - it's almost like he can reach out and touch the ghosts that haunt him. Trace his fingers down their faded faces – tap her nose with the tip of his finger like he used to. Drape an arm over his shoulder like he used to.

Sometimes he talks to them. Sometimes he doesn't.

Most times he's just happy to not be alone.

-/-

"How do you know Emma?"

The ball smacks loudly into his glove and David frowns, raising his own a bit as Killian tosses the ball back. It's towards the end of practice, everyone spread out and loosening up from a demanding work out. He lured David out to the backfield under the false pretense of working on his arm but in reality, the way David had soothed Emma with hardly a touch has been a point of consideration for him.

"Why are you asking?"

Killian stares at a point off in the distance and tosses the ball up in the air before slinging it quickly over to David. The thud echoes and David shakes his hand slightly with a smirk. It's a familiar technique of his in an effort to catch David unawares. It hasn't worked since rookie camp.

"I'm merely curious. Obviously the two of you have some sort of history and you've failed to mention a beautiful blonde in all the years we've known each other," he wiggles his eyebrows, knowing if he annoys the man enough, he'll give him information. If only to shut him up. "Does your wife know?"

The ball comes whizzing back quickly and this time it's Killian who has the shake the feeling back into his hand. All-star pitcher, indeed.

"It isn't like that, Jones. Don't be an asshole." Killian bows his head slightly in apology and David continues with a small half-sigh. Even insinuating that David could be unfaithful to his near-Saintly wife is low hanging fruit, even for him. David accepts the apology for what it is. "Emma and I grew up together."

"Family?"

"No, not exactly." Something about the tension in David's shoulders brings that unpleasant twisting back to his stomach and he swallows hard as he catches the ball. His fingers smooth against the rough, worn leather and he's just about to pose another question when David continues.

"Listen, it isn't my story to tell, and I don't know what Emma would or wouldn't want people to know. So let's just leave it at I've known her for a long time, and I'm very protective of her." He gives Killian a pointed look – a look that reinforces the same directive from the other day. Killian nods, not having the heart (or willpower – today's hangover sapping his strength) to make a comment. He can tell this is important to David and after all – he understands the importance of family.

He throws the man a bone, picking a subject David is always far too happy to elaborate upon.

"How goes the wee one? Any day now, yeah?"

David's face lights up at the mention of his yet-to-be-born child, all gravity dissipating from the conversation. Killian breathes a sigh of relief, letting himself fall easily into his friend's happiness.

-/-

Pregame is in full swing when he spies her walking along the edge of the dugout. Her hair is in loose curls over her shoulders, the bright blonde strands practically sparkling in the bright stadium lights. She's wearing a modest black dress with a bright yellow scarf and her dedication to team colors is – cute, in an odd sort of way. He shakes his head and goes back to stretching his legs out, bending at the waist and grabbing his ankles. Victor had demanded during the preseason that they all fall under the instruction of a local yoga instructor and while maddeningly self-reflective, he can't deny the ease in his joints. He lets his head drop down with a light groan and automatically meets her wide-eyed gaze – upside down from between his legs.

Her mouth drops open when their gaze lock, a slightly dumbfounded gape to her mouth that has him snickering under his breath. Apparently he isn't the only one who appreciates the benefits of said yoga instruction. Her mouth snaps shut abruptly as soon as she notices his smile, a light blush crushing her sharp cheekbones as she turns her attention back to Ruby, the young PR coordinator who always seems to be wearing some sort of leather. He's half convinced her and Victor have an office romance going on, but he has yet to test the theory.

Killian straightens and looks at her over his shoulder, lifting his cap and running his fingers through his hair in a few, quick swipes. She keeps her gaze away from him and soon turns back towards the tunnel that leads to the concourse, no doubt about to make her way back to the press box.

(He watches her from his peripheral the whole time – how a light gust of wind comes and untucks the scarf from around her neck, her smile easy and wide as she does her best to wind it back into place.)

He finds his attention easily diverted throughout the rest of warmups, narrowly missing a - to be quite frank, ridiculously overthrown - pass from Robin hunkered down behind the plate. Robin slips up his catcher's mask to reveal a smirk, gesturing at the open air press box above his shoulder.

"I do believe you had instruction, mate!"

His voice carries over the neatly trimmed grass and Killian turns to make sure David is far from earshot when he lobs the ball back.

"Mind your business!"

-/-

There's a point of every game in which he feels as if his body is on the verge of collapse. His legs ache, there's a dull pain that licks at the base of his skull, and his shoulder throbs from overuse. He remembers once – when he was a young lad out on the pitch behind his grade school – a group of older boys had come upon him and mocked him for what was clearly an _unathletic sport_.

It had ended in a three day suspension for him and a black eye that had to be nursed with a pack of frozen peas.

They were wrong then and they are certainly wrong now.

He watches as Robin adjusts his posture behind the plate and motions to David what to throw. He makes sure to put a few lewd suggestions before the actual call and Killian cackles under his breath, watching as David smirks just the slightest bit. David winds back and Killian bends down low, bracing himself on the balls of his feet because the lad at bat likes to hit them low and strong and he may be damn well exhausted, but there's still the thrill of it. Better than any spirit, it is. The low hush of the crowd pressing down on him, the smell of grass and dirt and sweat pulsing together. Smile curling his lips before he even knows it because _this_ – this is what he plays for. The knowledge that this next one is for him - and him alone.

The batter makes contact and the ball goes straight to his left. He doesn't even think, just pushes himself over and extends his arm. He feels the ball make contact in his glove, the tense vibrations of it rolling from his fingers into his shoulder. There is no pain in this moment, only – inhale, exhale, roll up and over. A red blur moves between the bases and he pivots his body, shooting the ball over to first. Smee easily tags the man out and there it is – the surge of it. The crowd comes back into focus as they come to their feet and this – _this._ This is what he's chasing. The slow float down of his adrenaline and the blades of grass tickling at his cheek. The stars muted in the bright lights of the stadium. No voices in the back of his head, no regrets – just this.

He grins wide as he lies on his back, David's beaming face appearing above him and interrupting his view of the stars.

"You're a cocky bastard," David shouts over the noise of the crowd and Killian's grin grows wider. "But you do back it up now and then."

Killian takes his extended hand and lifts himself up, making his way back to the dugout with the rest of the team. His eyes inevitably find her in the press box as his teammates pound his back and ruffle his hair, once again leaning against the outer edge like she just can't help herself. His eyes meet hers and knowing the jumbotrons are focused on his face, he lifts his hat up and tilts his head down, sweeping low into a grand bow.

The barest hint of a smile lifts her lips.

It's a start.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

The locker room is chaos when she pushes through the double doors with her shoulder, men in various stages of undress as they celebrate their win. Ruby stills at her elbow and licks at her bottom lip as Jefferson saunters by in nothing more than his boxer briefs, clapping an outfielder she doesn't know on the back. It's the typical post-game display of masculinity – all this…bare skin and gruff laughter. A radio blaring from someone's locker. A heap of abandoned equipment in the middle of the floor.

"Do you ever just stop and appreciate your life?" Ruby flicks her thumbnail against her lips as her eyes dart around the room. "I mean, I am just - really appreciating my life right now."

Emma rolls her eyes but a smile twitches her lips behind her raised clipboard. Working with professional male athletes certainly has its perks.

(She had seen him stretching – earlier – when she was out in the dugout with Ruby, red dirt on the heels of her shoes and the smell of fresh cut grass lingering heavy in the air. Bent at the waist with his hands curled around his ankles, pants stretched tight, shoulders expanding beneath the cotton of his uniform. It was – distracting, definitely. And then he had caught her, eyebrow jumping, fingers shifting back through his hair. Enough of a smirk curling his lips that she made a run for it back to the press box.)

(And then the bow – again – hair a wild mess and grin spread wide, blue eyes shining in the lights from overhead.)

(He's definitely distracting.)

She sighs and lightly taps her stack of media materials against her forehead once, dodging out of the way of another vehement showing of masculinity in her attempt to find him. With the catch he made at the end of the game, it's fairly obvious who the media wants to get up at the podium.

And it's like ripping off a band-aid, right? This low tug in her stomach when he pokes his tongue at the corner of his mouth, the way he sways into her space when he's countering her arguments. He's a frustrating adolescent on his best day, and yet –

And yet, she recognizes the way his shoulders curl in on himself when she accuses him of not being a team player. She knows that tightness in the lines of his face and the use of sarcasm as deflection. Striking out hard and fast before any punches can land on you. She knows what it's like to be so overcome by your own demons, that the bottom of a bottle is the only thing that comes close to the numbness you need.

"You see my catch, Swan?"

Killian grins at her from around the corner of lockers, eyebrows high on his forehead and clothes thankfully still on. There's a grass stain on his elbow and a bead of sweat making its way down his hairline, looking decidedly used from nine-innings in the springtime sun. Robin is at his side and she latches on, hoping that another person present will keep her from the downward spiral her thoughts always seem to take when Killian is around.

(And he's not even making an innuendo this time. He's just standing there, genuine in his joy, smile so wide his eyes crinkle at the corners.)

(It's worse – infinitely worse – than when he's being an asshole.)

"I need you both for the press conference – " She pauses as Robin turns, a small boy perched happily in his arms. He's wearing a miniature version of Robin's jersey as he clings tight to Robin's neck and it's clear as day that he belongs to the catcher, the dimples alone a dead giveaway. Emma finds herself smiling down at the boy as he tucks his face into Robin's neck, suddenly shy with the attention. "And who is this?"

Robin chuckles and shuffles the boy in his grip, ticking his side. "Ms. Swan, meet Roland Hood. I, unlike my parents, did not wish to brand the boy with a hysterical fairytale name. Roland, say hello."

Roland peeks up with a shy smile as Emma grins at him, smile widening when he wiggles around in his father's arms until he can whisper something into Robin's ear.

"It seems the little lad has a bit of a crush."

Her eyes dart over to Killian watching her with smiling eyes, arms crossed as he leans against his locker. That bead of sweat has made its way to his collarbone, the top two buttons of his uniform undone and giving her a prime view of its deliciously slow path down his chest. She coughs and averts her gaze back to Robin.

"Are you good to do a press conference?"

Robin shuffles his grip on Roland. "What do you say? Want to do a press conference with dear old dad?"

Roland nods shyly and Robin chuckles, giving Emma a nod of agreement. She gives him a grateful smile, knowing the media masses will be easier to quell with two players. She has a niggling idea that Killian will be more than enough of a show, with it being his first media availability since his ESPN spread. But hopefully having Robin there, and his child, will soothe some of that burn.

Her eyes dart back to Killian who seems to be doing his best to edge along the row of lockers, closer to the showers.

"You too, Jones. Let's go."

His shoulders slump and he rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "What? No pleasantries spared for the hero of the game? I don't get asked for an appearance?"

She grabs his arm and starts hauling him towards the entrance to the locker room. "Nope, you don't get asked. You are required."

"Oh, darling," he shifts his arm in her grip so his fingers brush hers, following her easily when she pulls her hand back and tries to tuck it into her side. Her curls his fingers around her wrist and rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth over the small flower tattoo there, that same tug in her belly pulling sharp with every pass. He sways further into her space, nose practically brushing her ear, his voice a low rumble between them. "I will happily be required by you any day."

She snorts, an inelegant sound that has him pulling away from her and meeting her gaze in amusement. His hand lingers on her arm but he releases her with a crooked grin, eyes narrowing in concentration as he traces the lines of her face.

"No good?"

She shakes her head, biting her lip against her laugh. She's seen flashes of it, in their limited time together. The way he goes from lothario playboy to shy and sincere. How he moves from insecure and defensive to righteous indignation. It's all a mess in her head and she's not sure what to think of it – what to think of _him_.

(She knows this feeling though. The shiver that slips over her shoulders when he gets close or when he – when he _bows_ in the middle of a stadium full of people. She knows that feeling and she – _can't_. Not after what happened in Kansas City. Not ever again.)

She crosses her arms over her chest, stepping away from him and chastising herself for giving in to the teasing. She made a promise to herself, and she damn well intends to keep it.

"Sorry, buddy. Your pick-up lines need work."

He chuckles, slipping his hands into his pockets and ambling easily down the short hallway that leads to the press room. If he noticed the flip of her mood, he doesn't comment on it.

"Do keep up, Swan. We have a press conference to attend."

-/-

The media begins their questions and she's once again grateful that Robin brought Roland along. They keep the camera flashes to a minimum and their voices low, and she smiles at how easily a group of hungry reporters can be tamed by a child.

And charmed. She watches as a reporter from the Sun practically melts into the floor when Roland gives a shy wave from atop his dad's shoulders.

"Is it too much to hope that they will maintain this level of civility for me?" Killian nudges her with his shoulder, the look on his face apprehensive. His hand reaches up to scratch lightly behind his ear before it drops back to his side, his feet shuffling back and forth on the cracked linoleum.

"Please. After the weeks you've had? I don't think so."

He frowns, blue eyes tinged with worry, the lines around his mouth deepening with his scowl. She searches for the optimistic side of her, shrugging one shoulder up. "But the sooner you get these questions done the better. I'll keep you protected."

He looks down at her with a surprised quirk of his lips. "I appreciate that, Swan."

She fiddles with her notepad and averts her gaze to the cameras. "Just doing my job," she mutters.

Part of her job is protecting players from unfair questioning and maintaining order in the press room.

He is no different.

"They're going to ask you about it, you know," she begins, her mouth running away with itself before her brain can catch up. She winces and jams her pen into her thigh, cursing her inability to just – keep her mouth shut. He shifts his position leaning against the wall so one shoulder is bracketed, his body curving towards hers. An eyebrow arches in silent question and she sighs, gesturing between them. "The whole formal bow thing."

"Ah."

Realization dawns on his face and his lips curve into a wide grin. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and leans back against the wall, offering no further comment, merely watching the spectacle of the post-game press conference.

She huffs through her nose. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

She blanches, humiliation crawling up her cheeks. Maybe she misread that. Maybe he wasn't looking at her at all. Maybe there was someone else in the crowd, someone he had a connection with, and –

She was stupid to think it would be her.

"Never mind," she mumbles, scanning the reporters, not missing the vaguely pleading look Robin gives her. She signals for two more minutes and he forces a grin, leaning forward into the mic.

"What's that? Backing down?" Killian's grin is bordering on manic, he looks so god damned delighted with himself. Meanwhile she's trying to figure out if she should just throw him to the wolves, leave him alone with the media that clearly wants to pin him to the wall. "That doesn't seem like you, Swan."

"You don't know a thing about me."

Blue eyes snap down to hers and his grin settles into something soft and contemplative. He sways further into her space, wrapping her in the small of sweat and the deodorant sitting on the top shelf of his locker - the clean starch of pressed uniforms. The toes of his cleats nudge her stilettos and she takes a step back, only to be met with the wall. He leans forward further, eyes glinting in amusement and puts his hand on the wall by her head – still keeping enough distance between them to maintain a sense of propriety, but close enough for her to feel his body heat.

(Close enough to wonder if that sweat would taste like salt on his skin, if it's settled in the hollow of his throat or slipped further still.)

"Aye, I don't know you," his hand slips down against the wall to toy with a stand of her hair, tugging lightly on her ponytail. "But I'd like to."

Old walls rise fast.

(New ones, too. Reinforced with new mistakes and new heartbreak and new nights spent in an apartment with just a few boxes, her windows thrown open wide so the voices drift in from the street below and she doesn't feel so alone.)

"Last question!" She shouts out from her place between him and the wall, averting her gaze to a spot just over his shoulder. She listens as Sydney shouts out some rambled jumble of a question from the _Mirror_ and then pushes forward, nose coming dangerously close to skin when he doesn't immediately step back.

"You're up, Jones."

He hums under his breath, lingering in her space for one moment longer before retreating, stepping over to the podium and clapping Robin on the back. Robin look relieved and he shoots Emma a thankful grin as he ducks out of the room to head back to the lockers.

The press loses it when Killian steps up to the microphone - his spectacular playmaking combined with his social antics makes one hell of a story. Reporters practically clamber over each other to get their questions out, Killian easing himself back on two legs of the chair, his feet up on the little desk and crossed at the ankle.

He's the portrait of casual indifference, looking for all the world like he's reclined at home and not defending himself to a group of people who could tear him apart if they wanted.

She can see the tweets already.

She can feel the headache already.

But Killian is a natural with the media – easily charming them into submission. She only has to intercede a couple times on his behalf, giving Sydney a sharp shake of her head and using narrowed eyes to scare the plump guy in the back right corner from even attempting to voice his thoughts.

She's seen his blog. It's nothing good.

Killian looks endlessly amused when she asserts herself over Sydney once more, cutting him off with a snap of her fingers when he dwells a little too long on the ESPN spread and Killian's drinking habits.

She shouts her last call warning and of course, the last question is the one she was wondering herself.

The one she's humiliated she even asked in the first place.

"What's up with the little curtsey thing?"

Killian throws his head back in a laugh, scratching behind his ear. "I prefer gentleman's bow, thank you very much." His eyes slant over to her when he says the word gentleman and god damn him, she knew it. He smirks and looks back at the reporter. "It's merely an assurance that I am capable of doing as I am told and - "

His tongue licks on the edges of the word, gaze once again seeking her out. "I do enjoy a woman in red."

And like clockwork, a hot blush works its way over her cheeks.

Asshole.

-/-

"Swan, wait up!"

She keeps walking, head down, pretending to be occupied by the media guide in her hands. It's a juvenile form of avoidance, but she doesn't have the energy for another loaded conversation. Killian has the unique ability to either reduce her to stammering sentences or make her vibrate with irritation, and she's not in the mood for either after a long game and even longer post. His sigh echoes through the (mostly) empty hallway, his cleats an uneven staccato against the floor as he rushes to catch up.

"You shouldn't run in your cleats on this floor," she supplies when he stops at her elbow. "You could fall."

"Don't want me to hurt myself, Swan?"

"Don't want the team to lose its shortstop."

"You think I'm that irreplaceable?"

She stops abruptly, head falling back to look at the ceiling. "Do you ever stop?"

He visibly deflates, cocky grin slipping from his lips and fingers crawling up to itch behind his ear. It's a nervous tick, it would seem, and it's both adorably bashful and incredibly confusing.

"Listen, I don't – I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."

She tilts her head at him, blinking slowly. He looks genuinely remorseful – both for the flirting now and the flirting before. Suddenly tired with much more than just a long workday, she begins walking again, passing players with wet hair and gym bags slung over their shoulders as she heads to the locker room.

"You don't make me uncomfortable," she mumbles.

His smile is slow and sure, thumb hooking in his belt. "Ah, so the lady _likes_ the bowing."

"The lady _likes_ when her players show up on time for community events," she deflects. She has no interest in telling him how her chest pulls tight every time he does it. "Be there at noon tomorrow."

He nods, rocking back on his heels. "Aye, love. Not a problem. Will you be joining us as well?"

She nods.

"Then I shan't miss it."

-/-

 _Gentleman Jones Saves The Day_ is the headline on the sports section of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette the next day and she rolls her head against her neck, closing her eyes and sighing into her coffee. The last thing she needs is the media mocking her as well. But that seems to be just what Killian wants because the article goes on to question just who this mysterious woman in red is and what her sway over playboy Killian Jones is.

She thought the Post-Gazette was serious journalism, not tabloid fodder. She has half a mind to pick up the phone and call their lead editor but she resists, instead reaching for her cell phone and tapping out a reminder to Ruby. They have a community event at a local elementary school in half an hour and the last thing she wants is a bunch of MLB players left alone with a hoard of children. She knows David well enough to know he'll be responsible, but Killian is slated to be there as well and the last thing she needs is a story in the paper about a group of children leading a rebellion against their teacher.

She sighs and looks at the clock. Regina asked for a meeting this afternoon and she had accepted without hesitation – suppressing the uneasy roll of her stomach. The last couple interactions she had with the owner at Kansas City had been less than pleasant, and she finds herself apprehensive of meetings with top leadership. She doesn't think she's managed to muck anything up in her first couple weeks, but if she's learned anything, it's that bad news certainly has no forewarning.

She's just about to rearrange the meager collection of things on her desktop for the seventh time when Regina strolls easily through her door, slipping into the empty chair and folding her hands neatly in her lap. She has the unique ability to look imposing without doing anything more than arching her eyebrow, and Emma fights not to fidget.

"Hello, Emma."

Emma nods a greeting back as Regina picks up the paper off the edge of her desk, smirking when she sees the lead story. She thumbs through it in silence for a moment, tilting her head as her eyes scan the page. "I see you are already worth the investment."

Emma sighs in relief because when Regina requested this meeting, she wasn't exactly sure what she was in store for. David organized her initial interview and it was hard to get a read on Regina during the process, her brain sufficiently occupied with other things and –

Regina puts the paper to the side. "How are you doing?"

Emma blinks and tries not to fiddle with the pen in her hands. "Well, I think. Players are starting to get familiar with my face, and I'm working on my relationship with the local media. I think things are going – "

"No, Emma." Reina crosses her legs and folds her hands neatly on top of them, bright red nails catching the florescent lighting. "I am very are of how you are exceeding in your position. I must say, you are a breath of fresh air after that idiot before you. He was a disaster."

Emma starts to articulate a thank you but Regina continues on. "I was asking how you are. How have you been faring after everything that happened in Kansas City?"

It's like a sucker punch to the gut. She breathes in sharp but pressure builds behind her eyes anyway, the betrayal and the anger and the anguish of years wasted washing over her in bitter, tumultuous waves. She averts her gaze to her desktop and fingers lightly at the edge of her spiral notebook.

"Oh, you know," her voice breaks and she coughs in a pathetic attempt to cover it. "I'm working on it."

She doesn't mention that she has to bite her lip so hard it hurts in the shower to stop the sobs from coming and she definitely doesn't mention that she has seen far too much Quantum Leap for her tastes but it's the only thing on at 2:30 in the morning when she can't sleep. She doesn't mention that her hand feels too light without the metal of a ring and she doesn't mention that she fears the hole in her chest where her heart used to be is permanent – another person who left her behind added to the list – forever the lost girl.

She looks back up and Regina opens her mouth to say something, a curiously sympathetic tilt to her lips. But she seems to second guess whatever she was going to say, her face clearing and a forced smile gracing her features.

"It gets easier," she says carefully and when Emma gives her a bland look in response, she laughs. "I promise it will. I know it doesn't feel like it, but it will."

Regina stands and brushes the back of her skirt. "Plus if it doesn't, I'm sure our boys will keep you plenty occupied."

She gives a pointed look down at the newspaper and Emma can't help but agree.

-/-

She gets to the school and parks in the lot, hearing the happy screeches of children in the playground attached. This is her favorite part of the job – the awestruck look on the kids' faces when they see their idols up close, the happiness that just radiates from their being when they get to play (and beat, if the players have any sense whatsoever) with the stars.

She slips in through the chain link fence and her grin spreads when she spies Roland running along with the other children. He's still wearing his little Hood jersey and it makes her heart swell.

"Alright, now who is going to tag me out?" His voice is loud over the laughter of the children and she turns her head to see Killian playfully dodging between kids. He's wearing a Pirates hoodie and that same damn backwards baseball cap, face absolutely lit up in a wide grin. He whoops as David comes out of nowhere and tackles him to the ground and the kids cheer, piling on top of the players. She is mildly concerned for their safety – she does not want to explain to Regina how she injured half the team at a school event – but Killian pushes David off and instead picks up a kid, throwing him high in the air.

It's surprising to see that he's good with children – it certainly doesn't fit with the whole lothario image he has going. Not only does he look comfortable, he looks happy and calm - the tense lines that she's noticed linger around his eyes nowhere to be found. His gaze finds hers through the crowd and he stills for a moment, smile tilting the corners of his lips. She smiles back because she's too tired to roll her eyes and that same sort of surprised look that he shot her in the press room climbs his face.

"Oy, you little miscreants! See that pretty blonde over there?" This time she does roll her eyes, even as she works to bite the inside of her cheek against a smile. Some of the little boys groan in embarrassment and the players laugh. She throws her bag down by her feet and approaches the group. "She's a player from the other team. Tag her out!"

Thirty tiny humans come rushing at her and she grins, dodging quickly left towards the swings as they take chase. David grabs her as she rounds the slide and lifts her up over his shoulder, laughing when she playfully swats at his shoulder. She is breathless with laughter as Ruby attempts to pull her down and the children clamor around them.

It feels like ages since she's been able to breathe and when David sets her back down she takes off again.

Maybe Regina was right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

Friday night dinners at the Nolan's household are a longstanding tradition, having started back in his rookie days when Mary Margaret caught sight of him after practice and declared him scrawny and – _he's practically malnourished, David. Look at him. How is he supposed to play shortstop if a stiff wind will blow him over? How about I make him some of that pot roast? The recipe your mother gave me?_ – an apparent liability to the team.

She invited him over and he found himself returning weekly, stuffed to the brim with fine, home cooked meals and armed with enough leftovers to get him through the week. The nutritionist delivered several less-than-friendly missives to Mary Margaret after he spent a bit too much time in the facility cafeteria praising the mac and cheese from the night previous, but luckily it only endeared him more.

Lately, though. Lately his Friday evenings have been filled with booze and women – doing his best to drown out the nightmares well before they can even begin. He can't remember the last time he made it to a weekly dinner and he finds himself considering it as he eyes his empty fridge.

(As he eyes his phone - the unanswered texts from Mary Margaret wondering how he is, how she hopes he's doing alright.)

He waits for the standard invitation from David following their Thursday practice, the routine tired and true. He rubs his hands together and ignores the knot in his stomach as David pulls on a clean t-shirt, muttering through the material on how Mary Margaret is making a casserole, and there's always room at the table – resigned already, it seems, for the deflection that usually follows.

"I'd love to join, mate," he keeps his gaze carefully on his cleat laces, taking more time than necessary to undo the knots. A quiet dinner with the Nolan's is exactly the type of thing he _should_ be doing – part of the new image he's been ordered to construct. "Seven still? What should I bring?"

He can feel David's gaze overtop him. "Uh, yeah," seemingly getting ahold of his shock, he clears his throat. "Seven's good and you know Mary Margaret. You don't need to bring anything."

There is, of course, the added bonus that Emma will likely make an appearance.

"Sounds grand, then."

-/-

There had been a moment in the press room, when she looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, irritation flashing in the quirk of her brow and that damned pen caught between her teeth. She had pressed further in his space, answering his challenge with a quiet one of her own - her nose practically brushing the skin of his neck as she ordered him about.

It had been a moment, he's sure of it.

One he's failed to recreate, despite his numerous efforts.

Emma has taken to avoiding him in the hallways, only speaking to him in clipped sentences when she has any sort of media request. He hasn't had an opportunity for grand bowing gestures in the stadium and after the press conference where he answered honestly and succinctly to all the accusations in print, the media fervor around his antics has died down.

He's intrigued by Emma. Intrigued by the light and goodness he feels when he's around her. Intrigued by the way she smiles wide and free and then seems to catch herself, shoulders curving in.

It's been a long time since he's felt anything beyond creeping loneliness and tendrils of self-loathing.

He's eager to chase it.

-/-

Preoccupied as he is with thoughts of Emma as he drags a decent button up from the back of his closet and stops to grab a bottle of wine for Mary Margaret, he forgets entirely that Mary Margaret cannot in fact drink said bottle of wine.

"Bloody hell," he mutters with a frown when she answers the door and smiles up at him, hands folded over the rounded swell of her stomach. Her eyebrows jump up in surprise and her smile widens, reaching for his arm and tugging him inside.

"Good to see you as well, Killian."

"Should I run out and get you some tea?" She gives him an indulgent grin as she guides him into the foyer, taking his coat and hanging it next to familiar red leather on the hook. "Peanut butter? What do you pregnant women like?"

"We like kind men with handsome faces," she cups his face with her hands and kisses him lightly on the cheek, thumbs rubbing over the line of his jaw as she looks him over. He wonders idly if she saw the photos that have been plastered all over the internet, and hopes desperately she hasn't. It's one thing to disappoint Dave - another matter entirely to let Mary Margaret down. "It's been far too long since you've come to visit, Killian. We've missed you."

"Aye," he sighs and forces a smile, the familiar knot of guilt sitting heavy in his chest. "I've missed you as well."

There's laughter from the kitchen as Mary Margaret leads him down the hallway and he's greeted by the very welcome sight of Emma in a pair of indecently tight jeans, head thrown back in laughter as David mutters something beneath his breath. He feels an answering smile tick the corners of his lips as he lingers in the doorway and watches her – the same openness lighting her features as the day they spent at the school, running about with the children. She had been beautiful as the little heathens chased her – her sinuous body and gentle curves hardly a match for the way she smiled.

He can't remember the last time he cared about the way a woman smiled.

 _Once_ his mind whispers and he stomps down on it hard – but not before a flash of rich laughter burns its way through his heart and causes a stroke of pain to twinge through his veins.

Emma freezes when she notices him in the doorway, smile slowly slipping from her lips as her shoulders become tense. The last thing he ever wants is for her to be uncomfortable - he meant that sincerely when he caught her in the hallway just outside the locker room. It seems she has enough going on with readjusting her life to Pittsburgh and recovering from whatever mysterious factors drove her here in the first place. While he does so enjoy the way her skin flushes when he teases her - the way her eyes flash bright and she leans in fully to his taunts, meeting him with a challenge of her own - he doesn't wish for his presence to cause her strain.

He inclines his head slightly. "Swan, Dave." He lifts the bottle of wine in his hand and winces in apology as Mary Margaret loops her hand around his elbow. "It seems I forgot how pregnant your wife is, mate. More wine for us then, yeah?"

Emma averts her gaze as he moves closer to the island where they are chopping vegetables, but seems to thaw slightly when he keeps his mouth shut and snags a corkscrew. He offers her a glass with a quirk of his eyebrow and she accepts with a quiet thanks, careful to keep her fingers from touching his on the stem.

"I've not poisoned it," he mutters, filling a glass for himself. While he feels unbearably light in her presence, it seems he has the exact opposite affect on her - if her behavior is any indication. He sighs and tips his wrist to pour himself a bigger glass, but her hand on his stops him.

"I didn't think you did." She urges his hand back until the bottle is situated neatly on the counter, thumbing at the corner of the label and returning to her somewhat haphazard pile of vegetables. She shrugs when he gives them a pointed look. "Never was one for cooking."

David takes the pepper Emma is intent upon mutilating from her grasp, squaring it on his own cutting board.

"That's because Ma knew what a hazard you were around hot surfaces."

He notices several things throughout the course of the evening – one being that Swan is positively sinful in her skin tight jeans and low cut sweater, chicken alfredo caught in his throat when she leans over the table for the pepper and the swell of her breasts rise beneath tight, red fabric. He'll have dreams of this garment, he's sure, of the way her fingers dance along her collarbones as she idly participates in conversation.

Two that Mary Margaret is still an excellent cook, if not better than the last time he's seen her. Three that David and Emma most definitely _did_ grow up together as their interactions lean heavily towards that of siblings, their stories reaching back to grade school.

And four, he's missed his friends very much these past few months.

They get regulated to dish duty after dinner and he rolls his eyes at David's smug smile, pressing a kiss against the back of Mary Margaret's head as he slides out of his seat and clears dishes. She hums and pats his shoulder lightly, free hand draped over her belly in a soothing gesture. Emma gives him a strange look when he turns and hands her a stack of dirty dishes, but she doesn't say anything until he's elbows deep in suds (how he got the unenviable task as scrubber while she got to keep her hands dry on towel duty, he will never know).

"You're different around her." She says quietly and she gives him a small, soft smile as she takes a dish from his hand. Her fingers brush his and a he grabs at the sponge to distract himself from the heady buzz twisting its way through his system. He tells himself it's the wine, and leaves it at that, scrubbing a bit too hard at a saucepan. Emma nods her head towards Mary Margaret in silent explanation. "It's sweet."

Killian frowns and wipes away some pasta sauce from a plate. David eats like a barbarian on the best of days and he can always tell which is his. "Are you saying I am not always _sweet_ , Swan?"

She rolls her eyes, but it's more amused than frustrated and he acquiesces. "Aye, Mary Margaret has been very kind to me. I owe her a great deal."

Emma grabs a fork from his outstretched hand. "What do you mean?"

Already uncomfortable with the route this conversation is taking, he falls on old defenses and lets his tongue roll against his bottom lip. He leans in close and lets his nose just barely skim the shell of her ear, their shoulders pressed tight at the sink.

"She can be a very _giving_ woman."

The idea that Mary Margaret has been anything less than faithful to David is ridiculous – and they both know it. But he resorts to his innuendos when he is feeling defensive and Swan is wheedling a little too close for comfort on things he does not like to dwell on. Her answering sigh is light and he chuckles under his breath as he hands her a serving spoon.

"There you are," she mutters.

-/-

He can't sleep – too much running through his mind - not enough alcohol to dim the thoughts and cease the nightmares from coming. He pours himself a glass of whiskey as he falls into his leather recliner and flicks on the television, stretching out with a light groan as the bluish tint fills his living room. The Home Shopping Network is on – as it always is – and he soon loses himself in the dulcet tones of people selling things.

He buys a SodaStream even though he hates soda because it looks awfully handy and the woman selling it really enjoys whatever concoction she's brewed up in the thing. And it also makes sparkling grapefruit juice, which he's never had, but he would bet his next paycheck that it's delicious with vodka.

As most things are.

His phone beeps with an incoming email and he arches a brow as he opens it – attention still half focused on the egg cooker on the screen ( _How do you like your eggs? Hard-boiled for lunch or cut into wedges in a tossed salad? Or perhaps poached or soft-boiled for breakfast? And you can't forget those delicious deviled eggs when entertaining_ ). He dutifully unsubscribes from every customer based system so his email remains flawlessly organized and when Emma Swan's name appears in his inbox, he reaches for his laptop without hesitation.

There's a little green dot next to her name and he types out his message.

 _K. Jones: Work emails at 3am on a Saturday night?_

His eyes scan over the email as he awaits her response – a schedule for this week's media engagements. There are a couple press conferences, a radio show or two (which are bloody miserable and the headsets make his ears itch), and an appearance at a local restaurant for an autograph signing. He's distracted when the messaging box at the bottom of the screen lights up.

 _E. Swan: Technically, it's Sunday morning._

He snorts into his whiskey glass - fiery as ever. While their evening had started out strained, the tension had eventually slipped from her shoulders. He was even granted with a smile or two, only a half-hearted roll of her eyes when he offered her a ride back to her apartment. He starts to type out a response but she beats him to the punch, another little line popping up in the small window.

 _E. Swan: I couldn't sleep._

He stares at the screen for a long time and takes a large gulp of his drink, letting the liquor burn down his throat until it sits low in his belly.

 _K. Jones: Well, the Home Shopping Network is having a sale on Tan Towels, if you are so inclined._

 _E. Swan: Are you saying I need a tan?_

He smiles because he can just imagine her indignant tone, the way her nose scrunches when she's particularly unamused.

 _K. Jones: Far from it love, I am quite enamored with your pale skin._

Thinking perhaps that might be a bit too much, he quickly changes the subject.

 _K. Jones: Oh delightful, they've moved on to Ginseng tablets._

 _E. Swan: You are ridiculous._

 _K. Jones: On the contrary, I am a man who recognizes a good deal._

He puts in an order for three boxes of tablets as they claim to support one's immune system and he _is_ an athlete. Victor will be right pleased to discover he does indeed take care of himself now and again. He notices he has another message as he swirls his whiskey in his glass.

 _E. Swan: Do you frequently impulse buy?_

 _K. Jones: I frequently impulse a lot of things, as you very well know._

He pauses and taps his fingertips against his keyboard.

 _K. Jones: But yes, when I can't sleep the Network keeps me company._

He thinks about adding how he likes to hear the comfort of voices in his too quiet apartment but it rings a bit pathetic.

 _E. Swan: Quantum Leap._

 _K. Jones: Sorry?_

 _E. Swan: I watch Quantum Leap when I can't sleep. They always have marathons on the Syfy channel._

He picks up the remote and flips to the channel in question, tilting his head when Scott Bakula in drag appears on his screen. He imagines Swan curled up in a ball on her couch and leans back further in the recliner.

 _K. Jones: But those shoes are dreadful with that dress._

 _E. Swan: It gets better. I promise._

-/-

Perhaps it's the dull haze the liquor brings on or perhaps it's the exhaustion seeping into his very bones as he slips further back into his recliner, voices fading in and out from the television as he flirts with consciousness - but he recognizes it for what it is.

The more he opens himself to Emma, the more he makes himself vulnerable - the more she reciprocates. He has no doubt tomorrow she will return to freezing him out and pretending he doesn't exist, but for now -

For now he knows she watches Quantum Leap when she cannot sleep and chooses to lose herself in work emails instead of drink. He knows she began watching this show in college and her favorite episodes are the ones that make her cry.

He sets his glass on the side table and flips the channel back to HSN, glancing at his computer screen and biting his lip against his smile.

-/-

He hears the metal of the door before the easy click of her shoes, smiling into the steady stream of warm water from the shower as he rinses the last of the shampoo from his hair. He knows very well why she's sought him out all the way down here, turning off the water in anticipation and reaching for one of the clean towels just beyond the curtain.

He's just managed to tie the towel around his waist and step out towards his locker when she meets him head on.

Angry would be an understatement.

"Cover yourself up, Jones," she seethes and he shrugs his shoulders, unwrapping the towel from around his waist and dropping it to the floor, leaving him completely naked before her. She makes a choked sound in her throat as her eyes go wide and he is absolutely _delighted_ when she averts her gaze to the ceiling, but not before her eyes linger on the ink along his side. Her cheeks flush deep red and she swallows hard, crossing her arms over her chest.

He picks up his track pants with a chuckle and slides them on, coughing pointedly when he is decent, leaving his chest bare as he leans against his locker. Her eyes snap back to his with a glare.

"Was that really necessary?"

"You came into the locker room while _I_ was in the shower, knowing full well that state I was in. Was that necessary?" His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek and he watches her flush settle down along the hollow of her throat to the tops of her breasts. It's a dangerous road to travel down, that, and his intent has never been malicious. So he backs off, reaching into his locker and pulling out one of the few clean t-shirts, slipping it over his shoulders.

He doesn't wish to scare her away before he has an opportunity to get to know her better.

She's holding a box aloft when he glances back at her, face pinched.

"What is this?"

He arches an eyebrow but refuses to touch the box. "It's a scarf, love."

She taps her foot and nods. "Yes, from the Home Shopping Network. Why do I have it?"

He shrugs and frowns, pushing the box gently away from his chest. "Are you asking me to justify your purchases?"

"I didn't buy this scarf, Killian, and you know that. Why did you buy me a scarf?"

He rocks back and forth on his heels and pushes his wet hair back, scrubbing at it with the discarded towel. "I know not of what you speak, darling."

Her eyes dart back down to his chest, lingering on the inked emblem over his heart that just barely peeks out from beneath his collar. The blush is back in full force and _god_ he wasn't joking when he said he loves a woman in red. Her skin seems to glow from the inside out and there is something deeply satisfying about the way her lips twist as she struggles to find the words to articulate his displeasure. It's precisely why he bought her the red scarf in the first place. Imagining it twisted loosely around her neck, the bold red against pale skin, made him feel dangerous things at 4am under the haze of one too many whiskeys and his phone was dialing before he could second guess it.

Her expression changes quickly as her gaze drifts from his chest to linger on his forearm. It seems she has a knack for finding all the places on his body marked with ink. Her brows furrow in concentration and he feels lead settle in his stomach, twisting and pulling and eating away at him like it always does.

Her fingers touch his skin before he can reach for the sweatshirt draped over the bench, soft and gentle as she traces the bleeding heart. His whole body flinches at her caress, the heat that he associates with her being forcibly overridden by memories of chestnut curls and _his fault, his fault, his fault_. He pulls back from her and folds his arms over his chest.

(It had seemed like a good idea at the time - to get her name marked onto his skin. He was so afraid he might forget what her laugh sounded like in the first snowfall, how her hair always got caught in knots just above her forehead. The image of her he carried with him had started to fade the more time passed and he had been terrified that he might lose her completely, so - it had seemed like a good idea at the time.)

"I'm sorry," she begins and he's surprised at the understanding he sees in the lines of her face. "I didn't mean – "

He waves her off with a forced casual twist of his hand and sighs. "Not a thing, love. Old ghosts and all that." He frowns and looks at his feet, watching the way she shuffles closer momentarily and then steps back. He pulls his baseball cap backwards over his head and meets her gaze, forcing a smile. Her eyes linger on his before drifting up, smirking when she takes in the furious mess of hair no doubt peeking through the snaps.

It seems it works both ways, this little dance of theirs.

"You know how that goes, right Swan?"

It's out of his mouth before he can help himself. He knows better than to push with her, knows that it only grants him the silent treatment for days on end. But he is tired from practice, tired from the sleepless night, tired from the ghosts nipping at his heels. For so long he's just wanted someone to understand and Emma - well, Emma looks at him like she knows a thing or two about wearing your scars for all to see.

He sees it in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders.

 _I couldn't sleep._

A lost boy always recognizes a lost girl.

She chooses not to answer, turning on her heel and not sparing him a glance as she swings back through the doors.

-/-

It's easy to distract himself once he's out on the practice field, using his bat to drive David near the point of insanity. He taps him once at the shoulder and then at the small of his back, aiming lightly for the back of the knees before smacking him lightly at the elbow. It's probably the longest Dave has ever gone without any sort of reaction and he's just about to up the progression of hits when a flash of red from the corner of his eye catches his attention.

He turns his head slightly to find Emma chatting away happily with one of the base coaches, her hair spilling over her shoulders in bright blonde curls. She's wearing the scarf he bought her, the red fabric bright against her creamy skin.

David takes advantage of his momentary distraction and swats him upside his head with his glove, laughing heartily when Killian drops his bat.

But he doesn't look away from Emma, and he raises both eyebrows when she meets his gaze, pleased grin stretching his face.

He does love a woman in red.


	5. Chapter 5

It's been a week of bad decisions.

She never should have answered him when he sent her that message, never should have encouraged a conversation about her love for Quantum Leap and his tendency to buy bulk packs of specialized laundry detergent off of the Home Shopping Network. In fact, she should have ignored him completely at David and Mary Margaret's as she intended, and she definitely should have thrown the scarf out as soon as the box landed on her desk.

She shouldn't have confronted him in the locker room.

She shouldn't have stared at the lines of ink banded thick across his chest, along his rib cage, twisting up the inside of his arm.

She absolutely should not have worn the damn scarf.

The last thing he needs is encouragement to keep doing - whatever it is he's doing. The way he looks at her when he thinks she isn't looking - the way he looks at her when she _is_ looking - all mussed hair and backwards baseball cap and tanned forearms with his tongue playing against his bottom lip, that slow smirk that tips at one corner of his mouth before the other, stretching into a delighted grin.

He just -

 _She_ just -

It needs to stop.

After all, she's sure this is nothing new for him. The thoughts creep in at night, when her room is still and the light from the streetlamps outside dance shadows across her walls. She's nothing special. He probably does this song and dance with every woman he meets, charming them with his easy smiles and sharp tongue. Flattering them with stupid gifts and curling his fingers through the ends of their hair.

She's seen the tabloid spreads.

She _knows_ better.

(She tells herself it's just because she's lonely. She had gotten so used to _not_ being on her own that she's forgotten about this part - where she feels a pull to the things that grant her comfort, to the things that make her smile.

There had been a foster home when she was no more than seven and they had a boxer mix - a horribly disinterested creature that would heave itself up with a groan every time she came padding towards it. But still she loved it fiercely, because if nothing else, it allowed her to stay when she scratched just behind his ears.

It allowed her to stay.)

She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes until she sees spots.

"It's nothing," she whispers, trying to forget the look in his eyes when she trailed her fingers along the ink on his forearm. It was only familiar because she wanted it to be, her own loneliness and broken heart seeking solace in another.

She drops her arms to the bedspread and stares up at the ceiling, traces the movement of the shadows until her eyelids droop heavy.

"It's nothing," she repeats.

-/-

She wakes up late, scrambling through her morning routine and shoving a pop tart in her mouth as she hops on one foot down the hallway, doing her best to slip on her shoes and call the elevator at the same time. Regina made it very clear that the team plane waits for no one, and she has no desire to drive her way out to St. Louis.

The plane is cramped when she finally boards, ducking into the first empty seat she finds. Her timing is lucky at best, the stewardess arching an eyebrow in silent judgment as the seatbelt lights flash on above them.

"So nice of you to join us."

A body plops into the seat next to her and she bites her lip against a groan, directing her attention to untangling her seatbelt and securing it neatly around her waist. Unfortunately, her new seat partner does the same and she looks at Killian next to her with a frown as he buckles himself in.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the players section?"

He arches his eyebrows as he leans back in his seat, fiddling with the arm rest.

Up, down, up again.

"There is no players section, love. How else could our formidable owner sit with our dear catcher without attracting attention?" He nods to the front of the plane where she can just make out Regina and Robin's heads bent low together.

"Really? Those two?"

It wasn't unheard of for members of staff to get involved with the baseball side of things with the Royals, but those who indulged were swiftly released from their positions. There had been a young girl that worked in Community Relations and started seeing the second string baseman. Despite Ella being very transparent in her relationship with Thomas, she was told to pack her things the very same day she had nervously confessed to a completely innocent ice cream date and subsequently blacklisted in the sports community. Gold was an owner with a harsh temper and rigid rule system and being on his bad side wasn't an option.

She anticipated the same with Regina.

Clearly there were a number of things different in Pittsburgh.

"Aye, Regina and Robin have been together for quite some time and have taken to hiding it. Though they think they're being awfully clever about it."

"And how did you find out?"

The lines by his eyes crease as he picks up the Sky Mall magazine, thumbing through it with interest. Apparently his penchant to impulse buy extends to the air, as well. "I babysit Roland quite often and I find he is a wealth of information."

"You interrogate a child for information on your friend?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm hardly barbaric, I give him ice cream."

He grins at her, wide and free and her lips twitch in response, digging out her laptop and settling in. It's hard not to be charmed by him - by his easy smiles and the frankly ridiculous paisley button up he's decided to sport for the flight.

"Didn't think babysitter fit with the whole lothario image you have going."

He's quiet for a moment, long enough for her to turn her head and stare at his profile. She expected a quip - a sharp retort in response. But he merely combs his fingers through his hair, seemingly lost in thought.

His eyes catch hers, and he shakes himself from whatever reverie he's fallen into.

"And I didn't think you're the type to wear your breakfast."

He reaches forward and brushes his fingers along her collarbone, along the edge of her sweater, holding a bit of poptart in front of her face in silent explanation when he pulls his hand away. He arches an eyebrow with a tight grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"It would seem we both have things to learn about the other."

-/-

The rain isn't coming down when they land in St. Louis, but if the heavy black clouds rolling in are any indication, the storm is going to be a big one. They hang heavy as the team makes it's way into the city, ominous thunder rolling with deep booms across the sky.

Naturally the storm holds out until _after_ all the pre-game work is done and the fans are in the stands - both teams seated in the dugout, a few of the brave ones with their heads tilted up to watch the wind whip at the pennants in the outfield. She taps her fingers against her lips as a gentle patter of rain begins to fall, keeping her eyes on the cluster of umpires close to home plate.

A sudden commotion from the visitor's dugout draws her attention and she watches as David steps out, gesturing to the announcer's booth. She's too far away to hear what he's saying, but the fans just above the dugout throw their heads back in laughter and clap their hands. She's just about to phone down to figure out what the hell is going on when David take another couple steps into the field and begins to dance.

Terribly.

His moves haven't improved from junior high when he was liberal with the finger guns and favored a bob and weave type of maneuver at any and all social functions. Second-hand embarrassment flares hot in her cheeks and she drops her face in her hands as the AV guys catch on quick and some ridiculous song comes floating through the speakers. David starts to get really into it, the bob and weave in full effect.

A few of the other player's join him and she watches as Killian steps out into the rain, doubling over in laughter when David does some sort of fishing rod mime attempt, trying to lure Killian out further. The cheers spread throughout the stadium as more people take notice of the antics on the field, the camera man panning around to capture fans beginning to dance as well. It's a bit surreal, to be in a visiting stadium and to see people cheering for the opposition, but bored fans are suckers for any sort of entertainment.

The dancing continues, getting exceedingly more ridiculous and the umpires finally decide they've had enough when Killian thinks it's a good idea to slide his body across the wet plastic covering that protects the field.

She tries to be mad, but this is only good press and her laugh is loud in the otherwise silent press box.

A stroke of lightning seals their fate and the game is cancelled.

-/-

She cracks the window, the faint dewy smell of summer rain drifting in with the light breeze and she sighs, twirling her wine glass between her fingers. As irritated as she is to have the game cancelled, it's nice to have a moment to just breathe. Away games are a marathon – the stress of travel and an unfamiliar environment sapping all her energy and frequently rendering her immobile somewhere around the top of the ninth. The end of an away game series usually has her crawling into her bed at some ungodly hour, still in her business casual from the plane, and passing out before her head can hit the pillow.

Those are the only nights the nightmares don't come.

The shrill ring of her room phone pulls her from her thoughts and she sets her wine glass down on the nightstand, eyebrows furrowing as she looks at the phone. The number tells her it's from another room within the hotel and she glances at her cell to make sure no one's tried her on her work line before picking it up and balancing it between ear and shoulder, muting the television with her free hand.

"Hello?"

There's a muffled crash as the person on the other end drops something and then a curse and she knows immediately who it is.

"Swan, delightful, I've been trying to reach you all evening."

"What do you mean you've been trying to reach me all evening?" She flicks her thumb over her phone and is again greeted with a blank screen – no missed emails, no missed messages.

There's a pause and then a chuckle. "Well, I knew you were in the hotel. Just didn't know which room."

She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs into the phone. The idea of Killian calling every room in the hotel in order to find her makes her stomach flip. The same tug low in her belly she felt when he came out of the shower with a towel low around his waist, when he smiled at her from across the playground. She tries to remind herself of who she's talking to, the type of man he is, but his words from earlier echo in the back of her mind.

Maybe she doesn't know him after all.

"What do you need?"

"Oh, darling. I have many needs. Where should I begin?"

Or maybe she knows exactly the type of man he is.

She hangs up the phone with a roll of her eyes, reaching for her discarded wine glass.

The phone rings again a second later.

"Apologies, love. I will behave like a 'reasonable adult' as you are so fond of saying," she opens her mouth to respond but he beats her to it. "So, what are you wearing?"

This time she yanks the phone forcibly from the wall, the cord swinging around and landing in the center of the floor. She stares at it hard for a couple moments as she takes another careful sip of her wine, half expecting the thing to ring regardless. She has never been more grateful that he doesn't have her cell phone number.

A knock sounds at her door.

She groans.

With reluctant steps, she shuffles over to the door, not even bothering to peer through the peephole before swinging it open. His eyes dance with barely restrained amusement and she downs the rest of her wine glass as he openly appraises her, eyebrow arching as his gaze lingers on her sweatshirt.

"This is a different look for you, Swan," he folds his arms over his chest and leans against the frame of her door. "I quite like it."

"What are you doing here?"

He scratches behind his ear and shuffles his feet, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

"Well, I - "

"I swear to god, if you say anything about wanting to compare room sizes, I - "

"I couldn't sleep," he finishes quietly. His eyes meet hers before flitting back to the carpet. "Usually I'm exhausted from the game and we've done not much of anything this evening and I - I couldn't sleep. I figured after our conversation the other evening that perhaps you might be facing a similar quandary."

She blinks. "You couldn't sleep so you wanted to hang out?"

A flush colors his cheeks. "Ah, well I suppose. If you wish to put it that way," he tips his head towards her, dimples flashing with a small, shy grin. "I find you to be quite charming company."

She stares at him. It's not difficult to tell he's being sincere. She's always had a thing with lies and she can hear the honesty that trembles along his soft spoken words. What she can't figure out is how this man is the same as the one in the magazines. The obnoxious drunk who flirts his way through life, not giving a damn about anyone or anything. She's seen glimpses of that man, but she's also seen -

She's seen hesitation and kindness. Generosity and crushing loneliness.

She drains her wine glass, opening her door further with her hip. Killian grins, brushing past her into the room.

"I even quite fancy you from time to time," he supplies, picking at the hotel provided snack basket on her desk. He isn't wearing shoes, and she imagines him padding about the hotel in his socks. "When you're not yelling at me, that is."

She smirks. "I think you like it when I yell at you."

"Swan," he looks up from a pack of cashews, blue eyes comically wide. "Are you flirting with me?"

She flushes red and looks down at the floor, trying to remember that mantra she was repeating to herself last night. She knows better. She _knows_ better. And yet here she is, practically inviting the problem into her hotel room.

As if sensing her sudden discomfort, he changes the subject quickly, glancing about her room. "Your room is bigger than mine," he abandons the snack basket to mess with the light switch instead, flicking it on and off and on again. He turns to her with a frown. "Why is your room bigger than mine?"

She pushes off the door. "Because I'm more important than you."

She slaps his hand away from the light switch and reaches for her bottle of wine, refilling her glass.

He smirks at her and sways closer. "Are you saying –" He abruptly cuts off when his eyes drift behind her, brow furrowing for a moment before his eyes light up in delight. She rolls her eyes when he starts to grin and takes a heavy gulp of her wine to distract herself from the way he's moving closer.

"Home Shopping Network," he hums quietly, nodding his head towards the television. "Why Swan, did you miss me?"

He sways closer to her, his socked feet just barely nudging her own. She fists her free hand in the sleeve of her sweatshirt, watching his eyes dance over her face. His eyelashes are impossibly thick, almost stupidly so, and she watches as they brush his skin when his eyes dip down, lingering just beneath her nose. His smile softens into something lazy and warm and his eyes lift back to hers, eyebrow arching to accentuate his question.

"They had a sale on Edelman wedges," she answers and he nods, his body moving just the barest hint forward. Her breath hitches, the back of her knuckles brushing over the soft material of his t-shirt. "A pair for under a hundred is a steal."

"That is is," he rumbles, voice low.

It would be easy to tip her chin up, let her nose graze his cheekbone. It's a dangerous thought, one she should certainly not be having, and she steps back before she's tempted further, taking another sip of wine and grappling for the remote to the television and flipping it off mute. His attention is easily diverted the moment he notices what they're selling.

"Bloody hell, is that a four pack of ramekins?"

He saunters over to her bed and drops himself on it, spreading out immediately and tucking his hands behind his head. Whatever tension between them moments earlier dissipates as he makes himself at home in her bed.

"Uh, no."

He arches an eyebrow and lifts his legs to his chest, slipping them under the blankets and burrowing himself down. "No, what?"

"Get out of my bed."

He pats the space next to him with a muted thump, nothing but his eyes and mess of hair peeking out from under the thick white comforter. "Get _in_ your bed."

"I am not getting into bed with you."

He rolls his eyes and leans up on his elbows. "Can't say I've heard that very much in my lifetime. Now please, come have a cuddle."

Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline and a laugh barks its way out of her mouth before she can help herself.

"A cuddle?"

He pats the bed again. "I'll be on my best behavior, I promise. No cuddling unless that is what you wish."

She huffs. "Definitely no cuddling."

After another moment of hesitation she crawls on top of the bed, making sure that her glass of wine doesn't spill as she scoots forward on her knees. It's a learned skill, drinking in bed, and it's one she has perfected over the past year. He watches her move with a bemused little grin as she settles in next to him, body pointedly on top of the covers.

He nudges her knee with his foot beneath the covers, peering up at her from beneath the duvet. "Perhaps a little cuddle?"

She shakes her head, smiling into her glass. "Don't push it, buddy."

They sit in companionable silence and it isn't as strange as it should be, having one of her players lying in bed with her. It's comfortable and warm and he does this excited little squirm next to her every time they bring something new out to sell on the program. It's cute, kind of, and she finds herself relaxing back into the headboard.

"Oh, we definitely need those," his excited voice perks up as they show off a Wolfgang Puck knife set and he reaches for his phone, dialing the number from memory. She watches him in amusement as he taps his fingers against the top of the bedspread, greeting the teller by name when she answers.

"Hello, Teresa. How are you?" There is an excited squeal on the other end of the phone and he pulls the phone away from his ear with a wince, smiling wide as a tinny voice on the other end descends into excited chatter. "Aye, it is. How is your daughter by the way? How did the recital go?"

She knows a thing or two about loneliness, has experienced her fair share of it over the years. But she's always preferred solitude - a quiet night in instead of out with friends. She's never craved people around her as a source of comfort. As she watches Killian make small talk with the telemarketer on the other end of the line, she knows it's not the same for him.

She frowns, thumb dragging along the lip of her glass.

"Just the one order, if you would," he catches her staring at him and mirrors her frown, eyebrows pushing together. "Always a pleasure, love."

He hangs up the phone, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

"Look Swan, little glass unicorns."

She ignores his attempt to change the subject.

"You know the woman who answers the phones?"

He scoffs lightly, tossing the remote and then catching it in his hand. "There are lots of people who answer the phones, Swan."

"I know that, but you _know_ her. You knew about her kid. That's – " She wonders if he initiated conversation and imagines he must have. After all, he sent her that message on the email chat all those nights ago. He was the one to come to her room tonight. She considers his antics - all those nights spent out at the clubs, drinking himself mindless - and it begins to make a bit more sense. There aren't many options for socializing in Pittsburgh, even less so for star athletes. It's easy to see how he might go out just wanting to be around people, only to have it quickly spiral out of control.

"I know what it is, and I don't need a reminder from you." He throws back the covers and stalks over to the mini bar, opening it up angrily and grabbing four little bottles. He comes back to the bed with a huff and messes with one of the tiny caps, cursing under his breath when he can't get it open. She sighs and pulls the bottle from his fidgeting fingers, opening it easily and handing it back.

"I was going to say sweet of you," she finishes. "To ask about her kid."

He looks at her carefully, seemingly weighing if she's telling the truth or not. He takes a pull from the small, ridiculous bottle and winces when the cheap liquor hits his tongue.

"This is terrible," he mumbles, avoiding the subject all together. Despite his distaste, he takes another sip and leans back in the bed with a shudder. He quickly finishes one bottle to move onto another, staring unblinking at the television and thumbing at his phone.

"I'm going to buy you some unicorns," he declares suddenly.

She looks at the unicorns in question and suddenly she's seven years old again, back in a dusty foster home with curtains that hang crooked over the windows. It's remarkable the resemblance between these unicorns and the ones that sat upon the mantle, and she almost snatches the tiny liquor bottle from his hand. "I don't want the unicorns."

"Of course you want the unicorns, they're beautiful and an excellent price," he starts to dial and she panics, grabbing his hand and stopping him mid-dial. He looks up at her with wide eyes.

"Alright, no unicorns then." He locks his phone with a swipe of his thumb. "Care to explain, love?"

Her eyes dart down to his covered forearm. "Care to explain the tattoo?"

His body stills. "Fair point," he considers her for another moment before turning back to the television and she thinks the topic successfully avoided before -

"I was in a car accident when I was sixteen," he begins, voice low and rough. His fingers twist the bottle in his hand round and round as he searches for the words that stick in his throat. "The tattoo is for what I lost."

A humorless smirk twists his lips and he angles his head towards her. "Your turn."

She's not good at opening up to people, especially with people she hardly knows. But there's something about Killian - more than the pull she feels to him, more than the heat that flares beneath her skin when he bumps against her - that tells her he'll understand. He won't judge her for it, won't use it against her later.

"It's stupid, it was years ago." He nods in encouragement and she sucks in a deep breath. "It's just, when I was a kid, I passed through a bunch of foster homes. There was this one - they had these unicorns and they said not to touch them but I was just playing and I - " She shakes her head, picking at the bedspread, wondering how something she's hardly thought of in a decade can still hurt so much.

"You broke it," he finishes.

"Yeah," she smiles, forced, shrugging her shoulders. "I broke it and my guardian wasn't happy. I was shipped back to the group home overnight and I don't - I just don't want the unicorns, okay?"

The quiet stretches between them in endless waves and she feels it when he stops looking at her and instead looks back at the television. "Alright," he says quietly, voice soft. "No unicorns."

It could be the wine, or it could be the storm that rumbles and rolls outside the window, making her feel like they're isolated in the cocoon of her hotel room - but when he nudges over and taps the inside of her wrist with his fingertips, she lets him.

"But what about some dinosaur cookie cutters?"

She snorts. "I don't even cook."

-/-

She wakes up slowly, blinking into the darkness as she drifts between sleep and awake, deliciously hazy as a breeze brushes along her skin from the still open window. It's still dark, the room quiet and still besides the hushed chatter on the television she left on, it's blue glow illuminating the room. She sighs and shifts down further in the bed, the warm comfort of the sheets and the plush bed pulling her back down into slumber.

She hasn't slept this well in months and she is grateful for the wine – how it's managed to calm her turbulent mind. She doesn't remember drifting off, just remembers soft chatter and a sale on morganite jewelry, sharing some of the mini bottles before slipping further in the bed, the wine glass gently removed from her hand and placed on the nightstand.

A hand flexes on her waist and she jolts, eyes blinking open with a slight gasp. The bed shifts behind her and his hand slides further, wrapping around her waist and ghosting over her stomach, pulling her closer to the solid body behind her. His hot breath tickles her neck as he nuzzles down into her hair and sighs - mumbled, incoherent words slipping through his lips.

She definitely doesn't remember falling asleep with him.

She would remember falling asleep with him.

The tension melts when one of his socked feet nudges hers, a grunt beneath his breath as his whole body jolts, lost in a dream. It's wam beneath the thick blankets and she - she hasn't been held like this in so long. The selfish part of her easily subdues the fear churning in her gut, her exhaustion winning over as he buries his face back into her hair. She tucks her face into her pillow and leans her body back into his, sleep claiming her with a whispered sigh.

It's easy to be brave in the darkness.

But he's gone when she wakes, turning on her back to stretch in the open bed. The tiny bottles from the night before are lined in a neat row and the window is shut, curtains pulled tight against the rising sun.

It's easy to be brave at night, but another matter entirely the morning after.

She buries her face in the pillows, ignoring how they smell like his shampoo.

She can handle it later.

-/-

She doesn't handle it at all, ignoring him completely through the duration of the series, getting to the plane early enough to tuck herself into a corner and hide away.

Luckily it seems he's avoiding her too, not even glancing in her direction once when he boards the plane - this time clad in a ridiculous plaid suit, hair in complete disarray.

She tries to tell herself she's not disappointed by that.

-/-

She manages to convince herself for the rest of the week, up until a quiet evening spent with Mary Margaret. She blames the wine, again, and wonders if it's time to quit drinking.

"I slept with Killian!"

She blurts it out as Mary Margaret rounds the couch, bowl of popcorn balanced on her hip. She certainly could have selected a better word choice, or mode of delivery, but it's been eating at her all week. How she let him into her room and into her bed and fell _asleep_ with him. How he's all but ignoring her now.

It doesn't bother her – it _shouldn't_ bother her.

"Pardon me?" Mary Margaret sinks down on the couch, handing over the bowl and grabbing a pillow in its place, tucking her knees up under her.

"Not like –" She sighs and rubs at her temples. "Not like that. At the St. Louis game, after the rain cancellation. He came to my room and I don't know, I guess we fell asleep."

Mary Margaret eyes her suspiciously over the pillow. "Why was he in your room?"

"He called and I hung up and then he showed up and I - "

"But you let him in your room? In your bed?"

"I didn't let him do anything, he sort of just barged in."

"But you slept together?"

"We _fell_ asleep together. I didn't realize, I didn't know –"

She didn't realize how good of a listener he would be, how good it would feel for her to get some of the things she's long since buried off her chest. She didn't realize how easy it would be to have him so close to her, how good it would feel to have him curl himself around her, pull her back into his arms. She keeps trying to justify it, tell herself it means nothing, but it feels like something.

And that terrifies her.

"It's okay, Emma. To like him."

Her spine stiffens. "I don't."

Mary Margaret gives her a stern look and Emma arches an eyebrow in response. "I don't," she reaffirms.

"Killian is a good guy, contrary to what the media reports about him. He has a good heart," Mary Margaret tilts her head to the side, considering Emma, and her smile grows. "There is a lot about the two of you that is alike. I think you'll find that you have more in common than you know."

Emma thinks about the broken look in his eyes and the way in which his voice had gone flat, his demons rising to the surface in the blink of an eye. She thinks of the way his hands shook when he reached for the little bottle of liquor and how he had told her he couldn't sleep – staying up late to watch people sell things on television just to feel connected to something.

She pops a kernel in her mouth. Mary Margaret flicks her attention back to the cheesy lifetime movie.

"Just a thought."

-/-

There is a package waiting on her desk when she arrives to the facility the next morning. It's bulky and large and when she tries to lift it to put it to the side, the thing tips over and hits the floor with a dull thump. The label tells her it's from the Home Shopping Network and when she opens it, she feels a smile tug at the corners of her lips.

It's a dehumidifier.

She stares at it for a long time and picks up the receipt that came with it. There is room for a personal note and she rolls her eyes when she sees what's written.

 _You snore. KJ_


	6. Chapter 6

When he was a boy, he craved physical contact – always climbing into bed with Liam in the early hours of the morning, tucking his small body under Liam's outstretched arm until he could bury his nose in the soft material of his t-shirt . Liam had always smelled of the sea - salt and brine and fresh air - no matter how early or late he returned from work.

When he found Milah, they were joined at the hip – fingers tangled together as they walked, his hand threading through her dark curls when they kissed, his arm slung over her shoulder, folding her body neatly into his as they wandered down their narrow street to the baseball green just around the corner. The press of her skin against his calmed the buzzing in his head and made him feel _wanted_ – alive and needed and connected to another human being. Liam and Milah were always good about it - a pat on the shoulder as Liam passed him in the kitchen, a brush of Milah's nose against his cheek when they crowded together in the backseat of Liam's beat up wrangler. It was a - it was a need for him, to have that.

And then it was just - it was gone. Frantic yelling, grappling hands trying to get control of the car, the terrible sound of metal screeching against metal and then - _god_ \- blood. So much blood.

A clap of thunder yanks him from the reaches of sleep and he startles awake, fingers clamping down on warm skin in reflex. It takes him a moment to realize there's a body pressed up against him, another to realize it's Emma. Emma and her tangled blonde hair in his face, her skin smelling like honey and her - bloody hell - her hips shifting and tucking back neatly into his. He swallows hard when she whines low in her throat, settling back down into her pillow with a heavy sigh.

His fingers brush over the bare skin of her hip where her shirt has ridden up absentmindedly, eyes blinking rapidly in the soft light of the television as he tries to get his bearings. He can't remember the last time he's fallen asleep with someone sober and fully clothed. It's - it's nice. Lovely in the way their legs are tangled together beneath the blankets, her breathing soft and even in the stillness of the hotel room.

But she is not his, and he is not the kind of man she deserves. He has a tendency to destroy the things he cares about, and he's quite terrified by the notion he's starting to care about Emma Swan. It had been one thing to enjoy tracing the gentle curve of her hips beneath those delightful dresses she wears. Quite another matter entirely to find his throat growing thick at the idea of a young Emma shifted from foster home to foster home, never quite finding her place.

It's always easiest to recognize a pain in others, when you've experienced that same pain yourself.

He pulls back gently and she rolls over into the warmth he just vacated, crease folding between her brows. His fingers itch with the need to smooth it, and he knows without a doubt now is the time for him to go. He has no business staying here in this bed, wondering what she might be dreaming of as her eyes flicker behind closed lids. He shifts as carefully out of the bed as possible, dragging the blankets up over her shoulders as she settles. She mutters something under her breath and he smiles, giving in and letting his fingertips brush against her cheek. Her skin is impossible soft, and he is impossibly stupid for thinking that coming here last night was a good idea.

He flicks off the television and slides the window shut, muting the sounds of the storm that still rage outside. He doesn't let himself glance back at the bed as he shuffles out of the room, the glaring brightness of the hallway making him wince. Housekeeping has not yet begun their rounds and he finds himself grateful as he wanders his way back to his room. He had not intended to stay the night, and the very last thing he wants is any whispers starting about Emma.

When he finally falls into his own bed, he find himself quite unable to sleep. It's been quite some time since he's craved the easy affection of another. He stares at the ceiling and traces the muted light patterns with a disinterested gaze, scratching his fingers through his hair. He smells a bit of honey, and it's not nearly as unappealing as it should be.

"Oh, bloody hell."

-/-

He sees her in the morning as the team gathers for breakfast, her hair spilling over her shoulder and brushing at the curve of her waist, a yawn tucked in to the crease of her elbow. He finds himself wondering if she woke up when he left, or not until later. If perhaps she even realizes how they fell asleep together, tangled beneath the sheets.

(His fingers brushing the soft skin of her waist, her soft hum under her breath when he pulled her closer. Her socked toes nudging his, her hair haphazardly strewn across his chest.)

" - pitch before the game. Killian, you alright?"

He startles as Robin suddenly appears at his shoulder, dropping his coffee and cursing under his breath when it splatters across his shoes. He mutters some excuse, agreeing to something that will no doubt come to haunt him later. When he looks up, Robin's gaze is faintly accusing, and not a little bit suspicious.

"You sure you're alright?"

"Aye, fit as a fiddle."

If possible, Robin looks more concerned.

"I've not heard you use that phrase in the entire duration of our relationship."

He sighs and pours himself another coffee, ignoring his wet shoes and the anxiety clawing at his throat.

-/-

His mood sours throughout the entire pregame process.

He somehow manages to put his cleats on the opposite feet and walk around for an entire half hour without noticing. Will mocks him endlessly, and Whale pulls him aside to ask if he's been drinking again.

 _No,_ he thinks, not without a bit of hysteria. _I just find myself thinking on sleep warm skin and the bloody furrow between her brows._

It's not until he's sitting on the thin bench in the locker room, glaring at his glove, that Robin decides an intervention is necessary.

"What's the glove done now?"

He directs his glare to the catcher, watching as he adjusts the straps to his gear and rolls his shoulders. He doesn't dignify the question with a response, and Robin snorts out a laugh, holding his palms up in supplication.

"Alright, alright. Anyone ever tell you that you're a moody ponce?"

His teacher for third year when he refused to do his maths exam due to an unsuitable pencil. His brother, when he refused to eat kale. And David - at least six times a sodding day. He smirks and shoots his favorite rude gesture towards his teammate, chuckling lightly when Robin's hearty laughter fills the space between them. Robin shifts seats and slides into the space next to him, bumping him with his shoulder.

"You alright?"

He scratches at his neck. He isn't sure what he is. Falling asleep with Swan had been a mistake, that much he knows, but he still feels bothered by it. She's getting under his skin in the worst of ways and while he had been intrigued by it at first (her fire, her drive – the way her eyes flash bright and powerful when he says something inappropriate), now he just wants it to go away.

"You like her, don't you?" Robin asks quietly. When he merely gives him a blank look in response, Robin rolls his eyes. "Emma."

He tries to keep his face neutral. "This isn't grade school, mate. I'm not a child with a crush. Next you'll be asking me if I'd like to ask her to the dance and if I'm buying her a corsage."

"You _like_ someone?" David chooses that moment to swing into their section of the locker room and the way Robin's face twists up would be comical if his were not doing the exact same thing. The very last thing he needs is for David to break his body in half because he thinks he has a wish to bed his pseudo-sister.

Which he definitely doesn't.

Not at all.

Nope.

Robin hums lowly and shoots Killian a sly look. "He does indeed."

"Well that's new." David gives him an appraising look as he leans against the lockers in front of him.

It's not exactly a secret that relationships are not something he dabbles in. Nor, frankly, is it common practice to involve feelings of any sort with his dalliances. When they had first met, David and Mary Margaret made it their mission to find him a partner. Three disastrous dates later, and his very first drunken appearance on TMZ with a leggy redhead hanging off his arm, and they had stopped trying.

"I don't like anyone." He grumbles and he feels a bit like a petulant teenager, being interviewed by his parents about his first crush. His only wish is for this conversation to be over - and to perhaps be first at bat so he can take out some aggression on the mound.

"It's alright to have feelings for someone," David states, quiet and honest and it - it's just - his heart jumps a bit in his chest because it reminds him of Liam. Of summer evenings spent on the little dinghy out by the water, warm beer and quiet conversation. He frowns and looks down at his cleats. He's been thinking of Liam far too much as of late. He swore he'd never forget, but he also -

It's too much, sometimes. To remember all the good things he's had taken from him. All the things he's ruined.

David claps him on the shoulder. "You deserve to be happy, Killian."

He squeezes his hand into a fist and lets his eyes linger on the faint scars the curl around his wrist.

He doesn't deserve a bloody thing.

-/-

He avoids her for the rest of the trip, sticking to the back of the plane when they board for their return trip home. He sinks down low in his seat and when his eyes catch a flash of blonde, he turns fully to watch her converse with her assistant, head thrown back in laughter, pink lips spread wide in a rare but genuine grin.

 _Shit._

He definitely likes her.

-/-

He sends her a dehumidifier because he is a moron and apparently left his common sense in the hotel room in St. Louis.

He sends her a dehumidifier because he's been avoiding her for a week, and it's late, and he's lonely and tired and three glasses of rum in. He's spent too much time wondering if her skin is always that warm, or if it's just when she's asleep. It's been a long time since he - since he's liked anyone - and -

He sends her a dehumidifier.

Like a moron.

-/-

The annual family picnic put on by the organization is something he typically tries to demur from, but Mary Margaret had left him no less than seven stern voicemails on his phone about attending this year's festivities and he has no desire to anger a heavily pregnant woman. He pushes the dehumidifier incident to the very back of his mind as he slips into a flannel, and promises himself to not bring it up should he run into Emma. She's not mentioned it during any of their interactions, stilted as they were, and he's determined to follow her lead in an attempt to maintain normalcy.

(Never mind the way she blushes every time he catches her eye, or the way he can't quite keep his gaze from lingering on the tilt of her bottom lip.)

Little Roland accosts him as soon as he sets foot on the field, a little blur of black and yellow in a tiny _Hood_ jersey.

"Uncle Killy," Breathless, Roland pulls on his hand as he leads him towards a towering fortress of air and plastic, screaming children throwing their little bodies around inside. It's an unusual sight to behold in the outfield of the stadium, but it's nice to see the place decked out for the get-together. "Can we bounce?"

"No, Roland! No bouncing after ice cream!" Robin's voice bellows across the field and Roland turns sly eyes up to Killian, jutting out his bottom lip as he tilts his little head to the side. _Smart little lad_. Killian grins and picks him up under his arms, throwing him high in the air before deftly catching him, striding over to the entrance of the bounce castle.

"Let us bounce, shall we?"

He can practically hear Robin's sigh of disapproval but it's quickly drowned out by the happy squeals of Roland as they bounce together in the miniature house. He is careful not to stomp on any toes and be wary of the other children yet he somehow manages to get tackled in a flurry of little hands and feet – the tiny monsters rising up against him in a mutiny.

He rolls out of the inflatable house with an exaggerated stagger, clutching his chest as the children shout out to him from behind the gated strings of the entrance. Roland comes tumbling out after, hair askew and breathless with laughter as Killian swings him up over his shoulder.

"Back to your father, you rotten scoundrel."

He spies Emma on his way to drop Roland off, tucked away off to the side near the impromptu batting cages Regina rented for the occasion. It's more of a pitching machine squared off with emergency tape, really, but it hasn't stopped Emma from standing at the ready, twirling a bat between her hands. He makes sure Roland is safe and sound with Robin before heading in her direction, laughing under his breath as she falls into an absolutely ridiculous hitting stance, her swing missing by a good foot, the thud of the ball hitting the mat as he leans up against the post.

"Bloody hell, Swan. You're trying to hit the ball not chop down a tree." He grins when she turns and bestows him with an eye roll before turning and focusing on the machine once more.

"Did the dehumidifier alter your center of balance?"

So much for not bringing it up.

"Go away."

She swings again and huffs, straightening her back and firming her shoulders as the ball sadly rolls around by her feet. He rolls his eyes and pushes off his post, meeting her at the plate.

"You're doing it wrong," he mutters, reaching for her elbow. "Lift this up."

He presses himself against her back without thinking and the both of them inhale sharply, his nose grazing the tip of her ear. She smells of sunscreen and barbecue smoke, that same honey smell in her hair. It would be so easy for him to press further into her. Drop his chin to her shoulder and shift his hand up until he could cup her chin with his fingers. Tilt her face back and press his lips to hers.

He breathes out slowly.

"What else?" She asks, hands tightening on the bat.

He swallows hard and lets his fingers drift over the exposed skin of her arm, pushing her hand up slightly. After a week of not seeing her - avoiding her and telling himself he doesn't feel at a loss when she smiles. Being this close, it's - it's intoxicating.

"You've got to grip it tighter, darling." He leans forward so that he's completely wrapped around her from behind, adjusting her grip.

She snickers under her breath and he grins. "Naturally."

"Use your hips," he touches her lightly above her waist and angles her body slightly. "To power your movements."

His hand drifts down further and he pats the bare skin of her thigh exposed by her shorts. "Spread your legs a bit, love." He swallows hard when she listens to his quiet request, and he bites the inside of his cheek hard against the heat the blossoms low in his belly. "It'll help you maintain balance," he adds rather uselessly, reaching for something to say. His fingertips graze her skin again and he breathes out slowly through his nose, lingering in her space for another moment before stepping back.

There's a dull thunk as he loads the ball back into the machine, and he tries not to stare at the way she sways her hips from side to side. The pitch is launched, and she -

She misses. Terribly.

She throws the bat to the ground as he snickers. "You're an awful teacher."

"You better hope I'm on your team, Swan. Perhaps I can help you score."

She rolls her eyes as he wiggles his eyebrows and slides his tongue along his lip, reaching out and punching his shoulder. It's a delightful return to normalcy between them, and he finds the anxiety that had been settling between his shoulders slipping away. It doesn't have to be different. He doesn't have to - _feel_ anything for her besides a healthy appreciation for the way she looks in denim cut off shorts.

Regina chooses that moment to start the annual match, dividing the players and front office evenly between teams. Regina is very vocal about players not being allowed to play their professional positions, and Coach makes sure they all know not to get too competitive and end up pulling a ligament. Whale looks appropriately concerned in the dugout, idly looking as if he's considering having an ambulance on standby. Killian ends up catcher, squatting in the dust behind the frisbee that signifies home plate.

Two innings in, and he has no idea how Robin does this for a full game. His knees are aching, he's dreadfully bored, and the face mask smells as if it's been buried at the bottom of a foot locker for most of its life. His tune abruptly changes, however, when Swan comes up to bat. Down low like this, he has the perfect view to -

"Stop staring at my ass," she mutters with her back to him, tapping the bat on the edge of the frisbee. She glances over her shoulder at him with a knowing look and he just shrugs his shoulders, adjusting his backwards cap and rocking back on his heels - crouched down as he is.

"Just appreciating the view, love."

She rolls her eyes and shifts her attention to Robin on the pitcher's mound, falling effortlessly into a graceful and flawless hitters stance. He blinks at her once - twice - because that stance is far too natural to be a farce, and he knows very well he's not _that_ good of a teacher. She most certainly did not need his assistance earlier. The realization curls up until he's grinning like a mad man behind the catcher's mask, a disbelieving chuckle slipping through his lips when Robin launches the pitch and Emma hits it head on - the ball shooting high over left field with a resounding crack. He slips off the mask as he watches her round the bases, ponytail swinging as she heads for home.

She hops on to it with a satisfied grin, both feet landing at the same time. There's a light sheen of sweat on her neck, and he finds himself wondering if that tastes like honey, too.

"Looks like I can score just fine by myself."

She swipes her tongue along her bottom lip and his brain immediately conjures an image of Emma Swan gloriously spread out on her back - bare to his hungry eyes, chest thrust up as her hand disappears between her thighs.

His breath hitches and his fingers clench at his sides. Her smirk grows into something smug and knowing as she watches his face change and when David swoops behind her, whooping in victory and launching her over his shoulder, he breathes out slowly through his nose.

Bloody _hell_.

-/-

He finds himself lingering on the field long after the vendors and families and temporary batting cages are gone. It's pleasantly quiet, out here like this, the high walls of the stadium blocking out the outside world, just the quiet hum of traffic and bustling city muted in the background. He closes his eyes and stretches out his arms as he lays in left outfield, letting the sinking summer sun warm his skin.

He's always been able to find peace in the baseball green.

"Are you alive?"

He blinks open his eyes to see Emma hovering above him, confused and radiant in the melting summer day - red and oranges and yellows dancing along her skin.

"Aye," he says with a grin. "Just enjoying the magic."

She shifts back and forth above him, seemingly weighing a decision. She chooses to sit, after a moment, and when she lays back in the grass next to him, her hair brushes the bare skin of his forearm.

"Magic?"

He hums his agreement, gesturing lightly to the empty stadium around them. "There's something magical about being in a place like this by yourself. When it's quiet and empty and you can hear the sound of your breathing. You can feel the history - all the people who have come before and the people that will come after. Magic."

He smiles, digging his fingers into the grass. "This is the part where Liam would say, _if you build it, they will come_."

She laughs next to him. "David loves that movie."

He remembers late night movie marathons, where David would insist upon watching the bloody thing three times in a row - how he always got teary eyed during the part where father and son play catch. "Aye, that he does."

They lapse into silence and he considers bringing up the dehumidifier, apologizing for being an idiot. But this is a nice moment - a perfect one, if he is being honest - and he's had so very few of those. Right now it's just him, her, and the lightning bugs beginning to dance in the sky above them. There's no anxiety of what they could be, how he feels, how she feels. Just - just the setting sun and the tattered banners whipping in the breeze. Fresh mowed grass and her knee half an inch from his.

Magic, just as he said.

"Who is Liam?"

He breathes in deep through his nose. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it used to. A bit like pressing on a faded bruise - an ache instead of a sharp pain. "He was my brother," he says quietly.

Fingers caress the tattoo on his arm and when he looks over at her, she's leaning up on an elbow, frowning with something that looks like understanding. Her face pinches, and she meets his gaze, green eyes soft. He usually hates the way people look at him after he says it. But with Emma, it's -

It's nice to have her here. Next to him.

"The accident?"

He nods and pulls his arm back. It's a bit too much, having her fingertips tracing the lines of ink on his arm in memory of his brother as he says his name. She lays back down beside him, tilting her heads towards the sky.

"I was married," she offers, and he turns his head abruptly to watch the frown tilt her lips down. "In Kansas City, I was fired and then a week later my husband left me."

She shrugs, and turns to him with a brittle smile, a painful shadow of the real thing. "You showed me yours," she whispers. "I show you mine."

The same little crease appears between her eyebrows and this time he doesn't resist the urge, reaching out and gently smoothing it with his thumb.

"Well the man sounds like a right wanker."

She scoffs, the puff of air hot against his wrist. Touching her is like that first sip of rum - smooth and completely intoxicating. He is helpless to stop as he lets his fingers trace the curve of her cheek, down below her ear, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she watches him. She has a gentle divot in the jut of her chin that he wants to press his thumb to. Guide her mouth open beneath his.

"You don't even know him," she replies, the barest hint of a waver audible in her quiet whisper.

"I know what he gave up," he replies. "That's enough."

How could anyone let her go? How could anyone have her and see the way she smiles - see the way she looks when she tilts her head back and laughs - and then let her go? It's inconceivable to him. He was right. The man is a wanker - a bloody fool in the worst of ways.

To willingly give up a woman as captivating as Emma Swan.

"Killian," she breathes out his name and curls her fingers around his wrist, green eyes impossibly wide, blonde hair splayed across the grass of the outfield. It's a different sort of magic, this moment, but magic all the same. His eyes dart to her mouth, his tongue swiping along his bottom lip. She's so close he can see the freckles on her nose - feel her exhale when she shifts on her side.

"Emma," he replies and he nudges his nose against hers, watching as her eyes flutter shut, free hand creeping forward to press lightly against his chest. His heart thumps out a heavy staccato against his ribcage and he's never felt a pull this strong - the _need_ to kiss her so consuming it's making him dizzy.

She tilts her face up towards his and he lets his fingers slide to the back of her head, carding through her hair and anchoring there.

He can't remember the last time he's wanted to kiss someone so badly.

"Hey!" She pulls back from him with a gasp, twisting over onto her back and wrenching herself from his grasp. He turns to find Leroy, one of the stadium's maintenance men, hovering at the edge of the field. "You aren't supposed to be here!"

Without waiting for an answer, Leroy turns and pushes against the large power switch, plunging the stadium into cooling darkness. The bright bulbs around the stadium dim with a heaving sigh, the glowing embers fading slowly. He disappears as quickly as he arrived, and Killian glances quickly over at Emma, fearing the worst.

"I should go." She pushes herself up from the grass and he sits up with a frown, watching as she forces a shaking hand through her hair. The dimming lights of the stadium cast shadows over her porcelain skin.

"Emma, wait -"

"No, I'm sorry. I'm just-" Her eyes meet his for the briefest of seconds and he can see the moment she turns away from him, her gaze hardening into something resolute and unflinching. She rocks up on her feet and tugs her shorts into place, gesturing to the dugout with an aborted nod of her head. "I'm just - I'm going to go."

She strides away from him before he has a chance to say another word and he watches her go, shoulders tight and chin tucked to her chest. He sighs and falls back into the grass, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes until he sees spots. All he sees is her damned eyelashes against the swell of her cheeks - her lips pink and inviting. She had wanted to kiss him, he knows it. And he had wanted to kiss her, too.

He drops his hands to his sides and stares up at the dark sky, the voice in his head reminding him he doesn't get to have the things he wants. It's for the best, it would seem, that they were interrupted.

He repeats it to himself in hopes of believing it.

-/-

He tries to lose himself in the game to get his mind off of it. Baseball has always been an escape for him, but today it's - it's difficult and he knows it's because she refused to look at him during pregame, sending Ruby to ask for interview assignments and gather quotes. It's infuriating and frustrating and he finds himself thoroughly unable to concentrate as the game drifts into the sixth.

David knocks their heads together as they head out to the field, gripping his shoulder tight. It's usually something that settles him, but tonight it only fuels his frustration. He is not a child that needs to be coddled.

"You alright?"

He shoves him away, wishing desperately for a bottle of something alcoholic. He's never been unable to clear his mind like this before, and it's sending him into a tailspin.

"Why does everyone keep asking that?"

It doesn't help that they're playing the Dodgers and his long standing feud with Walsh has been dominating the media. He swears to all the gods above and below if he's asked one more time about the bloody altercation in Los Angeles six seasons ago, he'll start swinging at the reporters instead.

Emma is sure to love that.

The chanting crowd grows louder in his ears and he can't seem to block it out, the sweat beading on his neck and sliding down, his skin itchy and hot underneath the sun. He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet and stretches down, willing his back to stop with it's angry protests because he needs to _focus_ , just needs to block everything out.

Sad eyes and pretty pink lips drift unbidden through his mind and his irritation only grows because he _can't have_ and he _doesn't deserve_ and _he wants._

Walsh approaches the plate and he slams his fist into his glove. He's sure the cameras are focused on him and he channels all of his energy into remaining still. Like the arrogant son of a bitch he is, Walsh tips his head in his direction with a little smirk as he brings his bat up and it's enough for the anger to prick at the corners of his eyes. He growls under his breath, not missing the look David shoots him from a couple feet away.

Walsh never did know when to leave well enough alone.

He braces down low as David winds back, eyes darting to Robin as he makes the call. Walsh's eyes narrow in concentration and _bloody hell,_ how he wants to just smack the smug look right off -

There's the crack of the bat, a bitten off curse, the rush of the crowd, and then there's nothing at all.


End file.
